G.  W.  Thissell 


Crossing  the  Plains 
in  '49 


By  G.  W.   THISSELL 


'-^r 


Oakland,  California 

IQOg 


^A'^'^ 
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COPY  AiJDiiD 


Copyrighted  1903 
By   G.  W.   Thissell 


y 


I  dedicate  this  little  work  to  my  beloved 
wife  who  shared  my  hardships  and  trials 
in  a  pioneer's  life. 


1 5879 1 


CONTENTS. 

A  Chapter  from  My  Diary 13 

The  Last   Hen 17 

How  Felix  Killed  His  Deer 23 

The  Only  Coffin 27 

The  Man  that  Ate  the  Horse      29 

The  Cat  That  Crossed  the  Plains  in  1850 33 

The  Duel  37 

The  Buffalo  Chase 39 

An    Indian  Hunt 42 

The  Snow-storm 44 

The  Inhuman  Wretches 48 

Up  the  Platte  .51 

A  Sabbath  on  the   Plains 57 

Lost  in  the  Sand-hills 59 

Only  One  Storm 61 

Fort  Laramie      .    .  .    .    .    . 63 

Independence  Rock  68 

Summit  of  the  Rocky  Mountains 71 

Echo  Canyon 75 

The  Man  That  Sold  His  Wife 76 

Brown  and  the  Buffalo 78 

The  Mammoth   Train 79 

A  Supper  on  the  Plains   ...  83 

The  Robbers 85 

A  Fight  with  the  Indians      ,       91 

Rattlesnake   Canyon 94 

The  Stolen  Boy      96 

Salt  Lake  City loi 

The  Wedding ....  108 

The  Good    Indians   ..  iii 

The  Man  That  Ate  the  Bacon  Rind      115 

Gravelly   Ford 119 

The  Hopper  Train      120 

The    Long  Swim 122 

The  First  Gold  Dust       124 


The  Hero  of  1857 125 

The  Bfg  Indian 127 

The  Lone  Grave 130 

The  Desert 133 

How  Hobson  Rode  the  Buffalo 137 

Carson  River  or  Ragtown  .   .  143 

The  Pioneer  Train  of  '49 146 

Summit  of  the  Sierras r  .  151 

A  Pathetic  Story 153 

The   Lone  Wagon 157 

The  Boys  Who  Had  the  Gold  Fever 158 

The   Burnt  Wagon 165 

The  Camp-fire 168 

Only  Three  Meals 171 


INTRODUCTION. 

It  is  no  light  undertaking  to  prepare  a  story 
adequately  describing  the  trip  across  the  plains 
with  an  ox  team,  from  the  Missouri  River  to 
the  gold  fields  of  California,  in  '49-'50. 

No  pen  can  describe  the  trials,  the  hard- 
ships, and  priv^ations.  One  must  make  the 
trip  to  realize  the  difficulties  and  dangers  en- 
countered. If  there  are  errors,  they  are  such 
as  necessarily  occur  in  writing  a  story  that 
covers  so  vast  an  extent  of  territory,  after  so 
long  a  period  of  time. 

This  story  includes  the  experiences  of  many 
pioneers  beside  that  .of  the  writer,  who  himself 
crossed  the  plains  twice  with  an  ox  team.  It 
is  filled  with  thrilling  adventures  and  hair- 
breadth escapes  from  death,  as  well  as  many 
amusing  incidents. 

Trusting  that,  it  w^ill  be  read  with  interest, 
and  that  the  reader  will  not  be  disappointed, 
it  is  submitted  without  further  comment. 

The  Author. 

Contributors. — The  author  gratefully  ac- 
knowledges contributions  in  this  book  from 
many  old  pioneers. 


lO  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

on  all  the  water  courses.  Every  steamer  was 
impregnated  with  the  germs  of  the  disease. 
We  had  scarcely  steamed  a  hundred  miles 
when  we  landed  at  Louisville,  Kentucky,  and 
put  off  four  of  our  dead,  one  an  old  patriarch, 
James  Putman,  bound  for  California.  He 
came  from  Zanesville,  and  was  the  first  man 
who  died. 

No  pen  can  describe  the  scenes  on  board  the 
steamer  for  the  next  twenty-four  hours.  The 
dead  and  dying  were  in  every  berth.  When 
within  twenty  miles  of  St.  Louis,  in  the  night 
we  landed  and  put  off  nine  more  dead.  All 
were  buried  in  one  large  grave.  Not  even  a 
stake  was  driven  into  the  ground  to  mark  their 
last  resting-place.  At  St.  Louis  what  a  scene! 
The  wharf  was  lined  with  men  with  the  gold 
fever.  After  two  days'  delay,  we  boarded  the 
steamer  W infield  Scott,  bound  for  St.  Joseph 
on  the  Missouri  River.  The  banks  were  over- 
flowed, and  the  water  had  spread  over  the 
river  bottom  for  miles.  On  the  high  knolls 
the  horses,  cattle,  sheep,  and  hogs  were  hud- 
dled together,  starving  to  death. 

When  we  arrived  at  St.  Joseph,  a  cold 
March  rain  was  falling  in  torrents.  Our  out- 
fit, consisting  of  one  four-horse  wagon  and 
provisions  for  one  year,  was  piled  on  the  wharf 
in  the  rain. 

In  the  rush  to  leave  the  steamer,  one  old 
Dutchman   was  crowded   off  the   gang-plank 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  II 

into  the  river.  After  much  splashing  and  loud 
yelling,  the  old  man  w  as  saved  from  a  watery 
grave.  The  gold  fever  had  left  him,  however. 
Wet  to  the  skin  and  chilled  to  the  bone,  the 
old  man  exclaimed,  ''Mine  Gott!  I  vish  I  vas  at 
home." 

At    St.    Joseph     every     available    camping- 


SUTTER'S  MILL. 

ground  was  occupied.  Men  were  rushing  to 
and  fro,  all  eager  to  buy  mules,  horses,  and 
oxen  for  the  journey.  There  the  emigrants 
crossed  the  Missouri  River  and  took  the  trail 
for  California. 

The  weather  was  cold ;  the  throng  increased ; 
the   excitement   ran   high.      Men   became   im- 


12  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

patient,  bought  feed  and  extra  teams  to  haul 
it,  crossed  the  river,  and  left  for  the  gold  fields. 

During  the  weeks  of  delay,  the  cholera  and 
winter  fever  made  their  appearance,  and  many 
sickened  and  died.  Others,  weary  of  the  trials 
and  hardships  already  endured,  sold  their  out- 
fits and  returned  home. 

The  day  our  train  crossed  the  Missouri 
River,  I  was  sick,  and  was  left  behind  at  St. 
Joseph.  Too  proud  to  return  home,  I  made 
my  way  to  the  interior  of  Iowa,  where  I  spent 
nine  months  working  at  my  trade,  that  of  a 
carriage  maker. 

During  this  time  a  few  of  the  ''forty-niners" 
returned  with  immense  fortunes.  The  gold 
fever  broke  out  anew,  and  the  road  was  soon 
lined  with  emigrants  bound  for  Council  Bluffs, 
which  had  then  become  the  starting-point  for 
overland  California  emigrants. 

This  was  the  border  line  of  civilization. 
Here  the  emigrants  crossed  the  Missouri  River. 
I,  too,  had  the  gold  fever,  and  at  once  set  about 
preparing  for  the  journey.  Bob  Gardener, 
Sam  and  Ike  Harris,  and  myself  formed  a  party 
and  cast  our  lots  together. 

Our  outfit  consisted  of  four  yoke  of  oxen, 
one  yoke  of  cows,  one  saddle  horse,  and  one 
wooden-axle  wagon,  with  hickory  withes  for 
bows,  over  which  was  drawn  common  muslin, 
to  protect  us  and  our  provisions  from  the 
weather.   The  wagon  bed  was  made  with  a  false 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 3 

floor  fifteen  inches  from  the  bottom  of  the  bed. 
The  Space  was  partitioned  off  into  sections,  or 
rooms,  to  suit  the  different  articles  of  food  we 
were  to  take, — beans,  coffee,  sugar,  tea,  pickles, 
and  rice, — provisions  enough  to  last  one  year. 
On  the  false  floor  were  piled  our  bedding  and 
clothing,  while  on  the  wagon  bows  hung  our 
guns,  powder,  horn,  and  shot  pouches ;  for  this 
was  before  the  breech-loading  guns  were  made. 

At  the  hind  end  of  the  wagon  was  a  large 
box,  the  lid  of  which  hung  by  hinges.  Into 
this  box  were  piled  our  cooking  utensils  and 
dishes,  which  consisted  of  tin  plates,  tin  cups, 
knives,  and  forks,  enough  tinware,  pots,  ket- 
tles, and  stew-pans  to  start  a  small  store — just 
about  three  times  as  many  as  we  needed. 

At  the  end  of  the  coupling-pole  hung  a  large 
churn,  in  which  we  put  the  milk  every  morn- 
ing. The  constant  shaking  of  the  churn  did 
the  churning,  and  at  noon  or  night  we  took 
out  a  nice  lump  of  butter  and  a  good  supply 
of  buttermilk. 

With  rifle  in  hand,  we  bade  our  loved  ones 
adieu,  and  began  the  long  and  tedious  journey 
of  two  thousand  miles,  through  the  wilderness 
of  unexplored  land,  inhabited  only  by  wild 
beasts  and  savages  of  the  forest. 

A    CHAPTER    FROM    MY    DIARY. 

March  6,  1850. — Left  home  this  morning, 
Bellefontaine,  Iowa.     Ground  frozen.     Drove 


14  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

fifteen  miles,  and  camped  on  Little  Pedee. 
Slept  in  a  barn  and  got  very  cold. 

March  7. — Snowed  three  inches  to-day. 
Traveled  twelve  miles.  Bought  twenty  dozen 
eggs  at  five  cents  a  dozen.  Passed  a  small 
store  kept  by  a  half-breed.  Bought  a  deck  of 
cards  for  ten  cents,  and  five  gallons  of  old  rye 
whisky  at  twenty-five  cents  a  gallon.  Gold 
fever  running  high.  Pulse  140.  Drank  my 
first  whisky  to-day. 

March  8. — Rained  and  hailed  to-day.  In 
crossing  a  slough,  our  wagon  mired  down. 
Had  to  unload  and  carry  our  provisions  to 
solid  ground.  Bob  Gardener  got  too  drunk 
to  do  any  work.  Made  ten  miles  to-day. 
Camped  with  an  old  pioneer.  Square  Frishey, 
who  came  from  Ohio  to  Iowa.  Found  him  a 
jolly  old  fellow.  He  had  three  fine-looking 
girls.  The  old  man  invited  us  to  spend  the 
evening  with  him.  He  got  down  his  violin, 
and  we  all  had  a  dance.  One  of  the  men 
brought  in  a  bottle  of  old  rye.  This  loosened 
the  old  man's  tongue,  limbered  up  his  joints, 
and  made  the  old  violin  hum.  Ike  Harris,  to 
reward  the  old  pioneer's  kindness,  stole  a  tur- 
key before  we  left. 

March  9. — Yesterday  we  overtook  two 
wagons,  four  men  to  each  wagon.  They  came 
from  Charleston,  Illinois,  and  we  traveled  to- 
gether to-day.  While  crossing  a  rapid  stream, 
one  wagon  capsized.     Everything  got  soaking 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 5 

wet.  The  flour  and  sugar  were  lost.  Killed 
our  first  deer  to-day.  Ike  Harris  shot  it  from 
the  wagon.     The  woods  are  full  of  deer. 

March  ii. — One  of  the  teams  got  fright- 
ened and  ran  down  a  steep  grade,  struck  a 
stump,  and  one  of  the  wheels  broke  down. 
We  were  twenty  miles  from  a  blacksmith  shop. 
Here  we  were  detained  two  days. 

March  14. — Sun  rose  bright  and  clear.  The 
boys  are  running  things  high.  We  passed  a 
log  cabin  to-day.  They  took  in  four  fine,  large 
turkeys  as  we  came  along.-  The  land  is  hilly 
and  covered  with  heavy  oak  and  hickory  tim- 
ber, interspersed  with  walnut.  On  the  creeks 
the  land  is  rich  and  fertile.  The  settlers  are 
ten  to  twelve  miles  apart.  They  live  in  «mall 
log  cabins  chinked  and  daubed  with  mud,  and 
have  only  one  window  and  door.  The  roof 
is  held  on  by  large  weight  poles. 

The  children  are  robust  and  hearty.  They 
live  on  wild  meat,  potatoes,  cabbage,  and 
turnips. 

In  the  fall  they  take  up  a  portion  of  the 
floor,  and  bury  their  potatoes  and  turnips  under 
the  house  near  the  fireplace.  This  keeps  them 
from  freezing.  To-day  we  bought  four  bushels 
of  potatoes  for  two  dollars. 

March  16. — Bob  Gardener  and  Elias  Ramey 
have  the  measles.  Gold  fever  is  going  down. 
Pulse  60. 

March     18. — David    Bond    has    the    blues. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 7 

Gave  his   outfit  to  the  company  and   started 
home,  Bellefontaine,  Iowa. 

THE   LAST    HEN. 

March  19. — Cold  and  frosty.  Ground 
frozen.  We  are  now  on  the  frontier  of  Iowa. 
Pioneer  cabins  scarce  and  far  between.  The 
nicknacks  we  had  when  we  left  home  are 
gone ;  we  are  down  to  bread,  bacon,  and  beans. 
We  passed  a  lonely  12x16  log  cabin;  I  went 
to  the  door  and  found  a  number  of  old  ladies 
having  an  old-fashioned  quilting-bee.  I  asked 
to  buy  eggs,  butter,  and  chickens.  One  old 
lady  informed  me  they  had  none  to  sell.  Just 
then  I  saw  the  lady  of  the  house  picking  one 
of  the  fattest  old  hens  I  ever  saw.  I  offered 
her  ten  cents,  the  price  of  a  hen,  but  it  was  no 
go.  I  asked  her  if  she  would  take  twenty-five 
cents.  ''Nosiree."  Her  old  man  had  walked 
three  miles  to  get  that  hen  for  their  dinner. 
The  devil  whispered  to  me,  ''Lie  a  little."  I 
hated  to  do  it  awfully  bad,  but  I  wanted  that 
hen.  So  I  told  her  one  of  the  boys  was  very 
sick,  and  we  were  fearful  he  would  die,  and 
we  thought  a  little  chicken  broth  would  be 
good  for  him.  All  the  women  quit  work  and 
listened  to  my  tale  of  woe.  They  wanted  to 
know  if  he  had  been  sick  long,  how  old  he  was, 
where  he  came  from,  what  his  name  was. 
One  motherly  old  soul  asked  if  we  had  any  cal- 
omel or  cathartic  pills.     I  assured  her  we  had 


l8  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

plenty.  One  loquacious  old  lady  told  the  land- 
lady to  give  me  the  hen.  But  no.  She  was  as 
firm  as  the  rock  of  Gibraltar.  There  she  stood 
with  the  hen  grasped  tightly  in  both  hands, 
looking  first  at  her  company,  then  at  me. 

I  was  now  getting  desperate.  I  told  them 
how  the  poor  boy  raved  at  night,  and  how  he 
called  for  his  dear  old  mother  and  begged  for 
chicken  soup.  That  fetched  her.  With  tears 
in  her  eyes  she  walked  up  to  me  and  handed 
me  their  last  hen.  I  offered  to  pay  her,  but, 
God  bless  that  old  soul,  she  refused  to  take  a 
cent.  My  conscience  now  smote  me,  and  I 
threw  down  ten  cents  and  started  ofT  to  over- 
haul the  wagon.  That  night  we  feasted  on 
stewed  hen  and  dumplings,  while  the  old  ladies' 
quilting-bee  dined  on  boiled  turnips  and  bacon. 

March  20. — Last  night  we  camped  with  an 
old  Dutchman.  He  proved  to  be  too  much  for 
all  of  us.  Two  of  the  men  tapped  his  bee- 
hive, ate  warm  honey,  and  nearly  died  with  the 
colic.  To-day  the  old  Dutchman  overtook  us 
with  a  double-barreled  shotgun,  and,  planting 
himself  in  the  road  in  front  of  the  team,  de- 
manded one  dollar  for  the  honey  and  two 
dollars  each  for  stealing  it. 

He  got  the  money.  We  had  to  pay  or  kill 
the  old  tiger.  That  cooled  us  all  ofT.  We  had 
learned  our  first  lesson. 

March  21. — The  sun  rose  from  behind  a 
dark  bank  of  cjpuds,  and  soon  the  rain  poured 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  I9 

in  torrents.  To-day  we  arrived  at  White 
Breast.  Here  a  trapper,  with  a  coonskin  cap, 
moccasin  shoes,  an  Indian  squaw  wife,  and 
three  children,  ran  a  ferr^.  Paid  him  five  dol- 
lars to  take  the  wagons  across,  and  we  did 
the  work.  (The  cattle  swam  all  the  streams 
from  here  to  California.) 

March  22. — Snowed  four  inches  last  night. 
Wind  from  the  north.  Cold  as  Greenland. 
Bought  one  dozen  hens  for  one  dollar  and 
thirty  dozen  eggs  for  live  cents  a  dozen. 

Paid  ten  cents  a  bushel  for  corn,  and  forty 
cents  for  hay  to  feed  four  yoke  of  oxen  over- 
night. 

William  Jones  has  the  mumps.  Three  of  our 
oxen  were  foundered  and  could  go  no  further, 
so  we  traded  them  for  cows.  The  gold  fever 
runs  low.     The  excitement  is  wearing  ofif. 

March  25. — Arrived  at  Council  Bluffs,  the 
border  line  of  civilization.  What  a  scene!  I 
shall  never  forget  it.  Over  fifteen  hundred 
men  were  anxiously  waiting  to  be  ferried  over 
the  Missouri  River.  The  boat  was  busy  from 
daylight  till  dark. 

This  is  the  last  opportunity  to  mail  a  letter. 
Last  night  all  wrote  home.  Some  wrote  to 
wife  and  children,  others  to  father  and  mother. 
I  wrote  to  the  girl  I  left  behind,  Asberrene 
Chambers,  (I  returned  in  '51  and  married 
her.) 

An  amusing  incident  took  place  last  night. 


20  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

Old  Bob  Smith  was  drunk — too  drunk  to 
write.  Jerome  Swim  and  the  writer  volun- 
teered to  write  for  him. 

It  has  been  fifty-three  years  since  that  night, 
and  yet  it  creates  a  smile  when  I  think  of  it. 
We  wrote  by  the  light  of  a  tallow  dip  set  in 
an  old  tin  lantern.  The  wind  was  blowing  and 
the  light  flickering.  It  was  impossible  to  fol- 
low the  lines. 

Time  and  time  again  did  we  start  the  letter, 
then  he  would  have  to  read  it,  and  the  big  tears 
would  fall  upon  it.  The  poor  drunken  soul 
did  not  want  his  wife  to  know  he  was  crying, 
so  another  sheet  must  be  started.  Then  there 
would  be  something  in  that  that  did  not  suit 
him.  At  last  we  decided  there  was  but  one 
of  two  things  to  do,  either  let  him  dictate  a 
letter  or  not  write.  Following  is  his  letter : — 
''Council  Bluffs,  March  26,  1850. 

''Mrs.  Robert  Smith — Dear  Wife:  Kiss 
the  baby.  Council  Bluffs,  border  line,  all  well. 
Kiss  the  baby.  Missouri  River.,  Kiss  the 
baby.  Had  a  good  time.  Last  letter.  Cross 
the  river.  Tell  the  baby  papa,  California. 
Dear  wife,  all  well.  Council  Bluffs.  Tell 
Johnnie,  papa  plenty  of  money  California. 
Kiss  the  baby." 

He  was  now  bellowing  like  a  calf.  We 
sealed  the  letter  and  addressed  it  to  Mrs.  Robert 
Smith,  Bellefontaine,  Iowa,  and  put  it  with  the 
letters  to  be  mailed. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN      49.  21 

In  justice  to  old  Bob  I  must  say  he  was  not 
the  only  man  too  drunk  to  write  home  that 
night. 

Before  crossing  the  river,  the  companies 
organized  into  a  large  train  for  protection  from 
the  Indians. 

Our  train  consisted  of  thirty-six  wagons, 
two  hundred  and  fifty  head  of  work  oxen, 
twenty  head  of  milk  cows,  which  we  worked 
the  same  as  the  oxen.  We  also  had  thirty  head 
of  saddle  horses.  One  man  was  elected  cap- 
tain (John  D.  Chambers),  wdio  guided  every 
movement  of  the  train.  Ours  was  the  ''Cham- 
bers Train." 

Each  train  took  its  name  from  its  captain. 
There  was  the  Walker  Train,  the  Chambers 
Train,  and  the  Samuel  Train.  Those  trains 
that  passed  and  repassed  each  other  were 
known  all  the  way  across  the  plains,  and  often 
visited  each  other  at  night,  and  had  a  dance, 
for  in  nearly  every  train  there  was  a  violin. 

April  2. — To-day  w^e  crossed  the  Missouri 
River  in  a  flat-bottomed  boat.  A  large  rope 
was  stretched  from  shore  to  shore,  by  which 
the  boat  was  pulled  back  and  forth,  the  emi- 
grants doing  the  work.  Nothing  but  our 
wagons  and  provisions  were  ferried  across, 
one  wagon  at  a  time,  for  which  we  paid  fifteen 
dollars.  Many  of  our  cattle  got  into  the  quick- 
sand and  were  pulled  out  with  ropes. 

In  swimming  the  cattle  across,  Doc  Bosier 


22  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

was  drowned.  He  came  from  Cole  County, 
Illinois.     His  body  was  not  recovered. 

We  drove  five  miles,  and  camped  on  low, 
rolling  hills.  It  rained  and  hailed  all  night. 
The  captain  called  out  all  hands  on  guard  to 
herd  the  cattle. 

^From  here  our  route  lies  up  the  north  side 
ot  Platte  River,  five  hundred  miles  Fort 
Laramie. 

April  5. — Last  night  we  camped  on  Elk 
Horn.  This  is  the  first  large  stream  we  have 
crossed  since  we  left  the  Missouri  River. 

For  three  days  we  have  been  traveling  over 
high,  rolling  prairie.  But  little  grass  has 
started,  and  feed  is  scarce.  On  the  small 
streams  we  find  some  willow  and  cottonwood, 
which  we  cut  down  for  the  cattle  to  browse  on 
during  the  night.  They  eat  the  limbs  as  large 
as  a  man's  finger. 

Many  elk  horns  are  scattered  along  this 
stream.  This  morning  William  Booyer  killed 
our  first  elk. 

Last  night  Jonathan  Rich  baited  his  hook 
with  buffalo  meat  and  caught  a  catfish  that  was 
four  feet  long  and  weighed  fifty  pounds. 

On  this  creek  we  saw  the  first  Indians,  the 
Pawnees.  They  were  all  armed  with  guns, 
bows,  and  arrows.  They  were  dressed  in 
buckskin,  with  moccasin  shoes  on  their  feet. 
They   were   mounted   on   Indian  ponies,    and 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  23 

rode  around  the  train,  taking  a  good  look  at 
us,  and  then  went  away  over  the  plains. 

Many  of  the  men  have  the  blues.  Gold  fever 
running  low.  Nicknacks  are  giving  out,  and 
we  are  coming  down  to  plain  diet, — saleratus 
bread,  bacon  and  beans,  strong  coffee,  and 
sugar. 

To-day  when  we  camped  for  dinner,  al- 
most every  man  was  cleaning  up  his  gun. 
James  Reed's  gun  was  accidentally  discharged, 
wounding  one  of  the  oxen,  breaking  its  hind 
leg.  The  ox  was  dressed  and  the  meat  divided 
around  the  train. 

HOW  FELIX  KILLED  HIS  DEER. 

Many  of  the  emigrants  never  owned  a  gun 
until  they  started  across  the  plains.  Felix 
Stone,  to  make  sure  of  his  game,  bought  a 
single-barreled  shotgun.  It  was  a  muzzle- 
loader  and  looked  like  a  beauty.  Felix  had 
loaded  it  for  bear,  and  no  bear  had  been  seen. 
Anxious  to  kill  something,  he  turned  it  loose 
on  a  deer.  There  in  the  willow,  not  five  rods 
away,  stood  a  fine  buck  gazing  at  the  intruder. 
Felix  raised  his  gun,  took  aim,  and  pulled  the 
trigger,  expecting  to  blow  both  eyes  out  of  that 
deer.  There  was  a  roar;  Felix  and  the  gun 
dropped  to  the  ground,  and  it  was  evident  that 
the  gun  had  shot  at  both  ends.  Felix  soon 
rallied,  and  so  did  the  deer,  for  it  went  stag- 
gering off  through  the  brush.     Felix  felt  for 


24  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

his  shot  and  powder-horns,  but  he  had  left  them 
at  the  camp.  Lose  that  deer.  No,  siree.  Felix 
dropped  his  gun  and  seized  the  deer  by  one 
hind  leg.  Just  then  the  deer  took  the  other 
foot  from  the  pit  of  Felix's  stomach.  He  let 
loose  of  the  buck  and  sank  to  the  ground.  A 
thousand  stars  shot  out  before  his  eyes.  He 
seized  his  gun  by  the  muzzle  and  struck  at  the 
deer.  It  jumped  to  one  side;  the  ground  re- 
ceived the  blows,  breaking  the  gunstock  entirely 
off.  Mad? — I  should  say  so.  He  now  sailed 
in  with  the  barrel.  Did  he  kill  the  deer? — Of 
course  he  did.  tie  .broke  every  bone  in  his 
whole  body.  But  poor  Felix  mourned  the  loss 
of  that  gun  all  the  way  across  the  plains. 

April  6. — We  entered  the  Pawnee  territory. 
All  day  long  we  have  been  traveling  over  a 
high,  rolling  prairie,  through  a  drizzling  rain ; 
the  cold  west  wind  drives  it  along  with  terrific 
force.     Every  man  is  chilled  to  the  bone. 

It  is  evident  we  are  leaving  civilization  far 
behind.  The  dim  wagon  trail  has  long  since 
disappeared.  There  is  nothing  to  guide  us  but 
the  Indian  and  buffalo  trails  leading  to  the 
Rockies. 

Many  of  the  trails  were  worn  in  the  hard 
ground  and  sand  rock  fifteen  to  twenty  inches 
deep.  The  constant  tramp,  tram])  of  the  In- 
dians and  buffaloes  had  loosened  the  soil,  and 
the  fierce  winds  had  blown  it  away.     In  other 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  25 

places  for  miles  the  trails  were  filled  with  the 
dri.fting  sand. 

Days  and  weeks  had  passed,  and  nothing 
had  occurred  to  mar  our  journey.  But,  alas, 
how  soon  a  heavy  gloom  fell  over  the  entire 
train  !  David  Long  accidentally  shot  and  killed 
William  Brown.  No  loved  one  near,  no  toll- 
ing of  the  church  bell,  no  marble  slab  to  mark 
his  last  resting-place.  With  tender  hands  we 
wrapped  him  in  his  blankets,  and  with  sorrow- 
ing hearts  we  laid  him  away.  Then,  turning 
from  the  spot,  we  resumed  our  journey,  fol- 
lowing the  Indian  and  buffalo  trails  leading 
to  the  west. 

To-day  we  experienced  the  most  difficult 
traveling  we  have  had.  We  are  in  the  sand- 
hills. They  resemble  a  thousand  eggs  set  on 
end.  Sand,  nothing  but  sand,  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach. 

The  wagon  tracks  are  obliterated.  The 
buffalo  and  Indian  trails  can  not  be  found. 
No  guide  or  guide-book.  Men  on  horseback 
are  far  in  advance  of  the  train  looking  for 
water  and  feed. 

As  the  great  luminary  of  the  day  sank  in  the 
west,  we  camped  by  a  small  pool  of  stagnant 
water.     Here  the  buffalo  come  to  drink. 

Around  this  pool  or  lake  the  mosquitoes 
swarm  by  the  millions.  I  shall  never  forget 
those  mosquitoes.  They  were  nearly  as  large 
as  Italian  bees,   and  their  bills  more  than  a 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  2/ 

half  inch  long;  with  these  they  bored  right 
through  our  blankets.  The  cattle  could  not 
feed  or  rest,  and  the  captain  called  out  a  double 
guard. 

We  all  rejoiced  when  the  night  wore  away. 

Iiis 
calf. 


This  morning  we  killed  three  buffaloes  and  one 


THE   LOST  TRAIL. 

April  10. — x\ll  day  long  we  have  been  travel- 
ing over  sand-hills  covered  with  sage-brr.sh. 
No  feed  for  cattle,  no  water  for  man  or  beast. 
The  wind  blowing  a  gale,  lifting  the  sand  and 
whirling  it  into  our  eyes,  almost  blinding  both 
man  and  beast. 

Darkness  set  in.  Men  on  horseback  were  far 
in  advance  of  the  train,  looking  for  water  and 
feed.  For  miles  we  traveled  in  the  dark.  No 
wagon  tracks  could  be  found.  We  had  lost 
the  trail. 

Cold  bread  and  jerked  buffalo  meat  were  our 
supper.  At  break  of  day  we  were  on  the  back 
track,  and  struck  the  old  trail  six  miles  behind. 

THE   ONLY   COFFIN. 

As  we  scan  the  pages  of  the  world's  history, 
we  find  no  more  solemn  scene  than  to  stand  by 
the  open  grave  in  the  wilderness  and  see  our 
friend  or  loved  one  lowered  to  his  last  resting- 
place,  without  box  or  coffin,  simply  wrapped 
in  a  blanket,   and   to  realize  that  we  would 


28  "       CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

scarcely  have  left  the  sacred  spot  ere  the  wolves 
and  coyotes  would  dig  for  the  remains.  No 
matter  how  deep  the  grave,  nor  how  many 
rocks  and  stones  were  piled  upon  it,  they  would 
tear  it  open.  It  was  not  an  uncommon  thing  to 
see  a  leg  or  arm  dragged  from  the  grave. 

We  had  camped  in  Paradise  Valley.  It  was 
an  ideal  morning  in  May,  but  the  entire  train 
was  in  sorrow.  Death  had  entered  the  camp 
and  claimed  Doctor  Watts,  of  Muscatene, 
Iowa.  After  four  days'  illness,  the  cholera  had 
claimed  its  victim.  Mrs.  Watts,  heartbroken 
with  grief  and  sorrow,  with  her  babe  in  her 
arms  and  the  tears  streaming  down  her  pale 
cheeks,  offered  one  hundred  dollars  for  lumber 
with  which  to  make  a  coffin,  or  even  a  rude 
box,  that  she  might  bury  her  husband  secure 
from  the  wild  beasts.  Her  grief  knew  no 
bounds  when  she  thought  of  burying  her  hus- 
band without  a  coffin.  Had  she  owned  the 
world,  she  would  gladly  have  given  it  for 
lumber  with  which  to  make  one.  But  we  were 
four  hundred  miles  from  the  Missouri  River, 
in  the  wilderness,  and  not  a  board  could  be 
had.  But  in  her  sorrow  and  bereavement  God 
sent  her  relief.  Joseph  Reese  and  Benjamin 
Troutman,  both  of  Des  Moines,  Iowa,  tore 
their  wagon  bed  from  the  wagon,  made  a  rude 
coffin,  and  gave  it  to  her.  The  entire  train 
gathered  around  the  grave,  a  hymn  was  sung. 
prayer  was  offered  by  John  D.  Chambers,  and 


Washington  Johnson 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    ^49.  29 

the  body  was  lowered  to  its  long  resting-place, 
secure  from  the  wild  beasts  of  the  forest. 

Reese  and  Troutman  made  a  frame  of  wil- 
low poles,  put  it  on  their  wagon,  piled  their 
provisions  and  clothing  on  it,  and  the  train 
moved  on. 

Although  the  writer  crossed  the  plains  twice 
with  ox  team,  this  was  the  only  coffin  or  box 
in  which  to  bury  the  dead  he  saw  from  the 
Missouri  River  to  old  Hangtown,  a  distance 
of   two   thousand   miles. 

THE   MAN   THAT   ATE  THE   HORSE. 

The  writer  is  indebted  to  Washington  John- 
son for  the  following  narrative  of  his  long  and 
tedious  journey  to  the  land  of  gold. 

In  1858,  when  in  his  twenty-first  year,  with 
only  sixty  dollars  in  his  pocket,  he  resolved  to 
seek  his  fortune  in  the  New  Eldorado. 

April  2  he  left  his  father's  home  in  Jasper 
County,  Pennsylvania,  and  made  his  way  to 
Black  Hawk,  Iowa.  Here  he  remained  a  few 
days,  again  starting  on  foot  for  Fort  Leaven- 
worth, Kansas.  On  his  arrival  there,  his 
money  was  all  gone.  He  hired  to  John  Mitchell 
to  drive  an  ox  team  to  Camp  Floyed,  in  the 
Great  Salt  Lake  Valley,  sixty  miles  from' the 
city.  Mitchell  was  freighting  merchandise  to 
the  camp  for  the  government,  for  which  he 
received  twenty-five  cents  per  pound  for  every- 


30  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

thing,  from  a  plug  of  tobacco  up  to  a  barrel 
of  whisky. 

It  was  strictly  in  the  contract  that  the  drivers 
should  walk,  unless  they  were  sick. 

The  train  consisted  of  forty-six  wagons, 
with  five  yoke  of  oxen  to  each  wagon.  Hence 
there  were  forty-six  ox  drivers. 

Everything  went  lovely  for  a  while,  but  the 
men  soon  became  cross  and  ill-natured.  The 
day  the  butter  gave  out,  two  men  quarreled 
over  the  last  morsel,  drew  their  guns,  and 
bloodshed  was  prevented  only  by  the  prompt 
interference  of  Johnson  and  Jake  Wilcox. 

June  20  the  Indians  stampeded  the  cattle 
and  drove  off  twenty-five  head.  Tim  Hamil- 
ton, Jim  Roberts,  and  Johnson  followed  the 
Indians  into  the  mountains  for  ten  miles,  but 
failed  to  overtake  them.  After  three  days' 
delay  they  started  on  their  slow  and  tedious 
journey,  many  days  traveling  only  eight  or  ten 
miles. 

After  five  months'  toil  and  hardship,  tired 
and  leg  weary,  they  arrived  at  Camp  Ployed. 
Jake  and  Jim  Wilcox,  William  Steele,  Robert 
Rouse,  Jim  Roberts,  Billy  Mason,  and  Wash- 
ington Johnson  formed  a  company  and  bought 
eight  Indian  ponies  for  seven  dollars  and  fifty 
cents  apiece,  packed  them  with  blankets  and 
provisions,  and  took  the  trail  to  Oregon  by  the 
old  Fort  Hall  route,  the  men  walking  and 
leading  their  horses. 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  3I 

When  they  had  traveled  one  hundred  and 
sixty  miles,  they  met  some  trappers,  who  told 
them  to  go  no  farther ;  the  Indians  were  hostile, 
and  they  could  not  cross  the  mountains.  They 
retraced  their  steps  for  sixty  miles,  and  took 
the  trail  for  the  gold  fields  of  California,  by 
the  way  of  Los  Angeles. 

It  is  impossible  for  one  to  have  any  concep- 
tion, without  actual  experience,  of  the  hard- 
ships and  sufferings  they  endured  from  this 
point  in  their  journey  to  Los  Angeles. 

Days  and  wrecks  came  and  passed,  and  still 
they  plodded  on,  often  without  water  or  food 
for  man  or  beast. 

Weeks  lengthened  into  months.  They  were 
tired  and  weary,  provisions  almost  gone,  star- 
vation staring  them  in  the  face. 

August  15  they  fell  into  company  with  eight 
other  men  with  pack  horses,  who  divided  their 
jerked  meat  and  hardtack  with  them.  Soon 
this  supply  began  to  give  out,  and  they  were 
down  to  half  rations.  Day  b)i  day.  meal  by 
meal,  they  saw  their  provisions  fade  away.  It 
was  evident  they  must  starve  or  kill  a  horse 
and  eat  him.  Their  horses  were  reduced  to 
mere  walking  skeletons.  Several  had  died 
already  of  starvation.  September  i  they 
selected  the  fattest  horse  and  killed  him.  The 
cook  kindled  a  fire  of  buffalo  chips  and  pre- 
pared a  supper,  which  they  heartily  relished, 
though  it  was  well  peppered  with  the  drifting 


32  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

sand.  They  jerked  the  meat  and  picked  the 
bones.  On  this  horse  meat  they  Hved  twenty- 
one  days,  until  they  reached  Los  Angeles. 

vSeptember  3,  with  a  good  supply  of  horse 
meat,  they  took  hope  and  pressed  on.  It  was 
hot  and  sultry.  Jim  Wilcox's  horse  gave  out, 
and  they  left  him  for  the  buzzards. 

September  4  and  5  they  were  in  tlie  sage- 
brush plains.  The  horses  traveled  all  day 
without  a  drop  of  water. 

September  6  they  camped  on  Salt  Creek. 
The  water  was  very  brackish.  Billy  Mason  is 
sick,  and  they  camp  here  three  days. 

September  9  all  were  able  to  walk.  Tlie 
sand  was  loose  and  deep,  and  they  traveled 
only  ten  miles. 

September  10,  cool  wind  from  the  west. 
William  Steele  killed  a  jack-rabbit,  the  first 
we  have  killed  since  we  left  Camp  Floyed. 

September  11  and  12,  still  cool  and  nice. 
Sand  deep  and  loose. 

vSeptember  13,  hot  and  sultry.  Water  full 
of  alkali.  Robert  Rouse  killed  his  horse.  It 
was  too  poor  and  weak  to  walk.  They  cut 
all  the  meat  off  of  the  bones  they  could  and 
jerked  it. 

September  14,  still  hot.  A  terrific  north 
wind,  which  burns  like  fire.  The  last  horse 
gave  out  to-day,  and  they  take  their  blankets 
and  guns,  leaving  everything  except  what  they 
can  carry  on  their  backs. 


PLAINS    IN    '49.  33 

September  15,  16,  the  heat  is  intense,  and 
they  travel  early  in  the  morning  and  late  at 
night. 

September  17,  18,  Jim  Roberts  is  sick,  and 
they  camp  and  rest. 

September  19  they  enter  the  ninety-mile  des- 
ert. They  start  with  a  good  supply  of  water. 
In  many  places  the  sand  is  hard,  and  they 
make  good  headway.  What  words  can  de- 
scribe their  joy  when  they  first  caught  sight  of 
Los  Angeles? 

Twenty-seven  hundred  miles  Johnson  had 
walked.  From  his  father's  home  in  Pennsyl- 
vania he  had  traveled  over  the  barren  plains, 
climbed  the  steep,  snow-clad  mountains,  crossed 
the  ninety-mile  desert  of  burning  sand,  with 
only  one  gallon  of  water  and  jerked  horse 
meat. 

After  nine  months  of  toil  and  suffering  he 
arrived  in  Los  Angeles,  October  16.  Here  he 
gave  his  blankets  for  six  meals,  and  pawned 
his  watch  for  more.  The  watch  is  still  in 
pawn  where  he  left  it  forty-four  years  ago. 
He  now  lives  in  Pleasant  Valley,  where  he  has 
resided  for  forty-two  years. 

THE   CAT  THAT   CROSSED  THE   PLAINS  IN    185O. 

On  April  2,  1850,  James  Philly,  w^ife,  and 
three  children,  two  boys  and  one  girl,  left 
West  Point,  Cass  County,  Missouri,  for  the 
new  Eldorado. 


34  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

The  wagon  was  loaded,  the  cattle  impatient 
to  start.  Mrs.  Philly  was  seated  in  the  wagon; 
George  had  also  climbed  in,  while  Phillip  stood 
clinging  to  old  Bose,  for  he  was  to  go  to  Cali- 
fornia. As  they  lifted  little  May,  the  five- 
year-old  pet  of  the  household,  into  the  wagon, 
she  burst  into  a  big  boo  hoo.  "What's  the 
matter.  May?"  "I  want  Jip  to  go."  No 
words  or  promises  could  quiet  the  big  sobs, 
while  the  tears  ran  down  her  sweet  cheeks. 
At  last  it  was  decided  that  old  Jip,  the  house 
cat,  should  go  to  California.  He  needed  no 
calling,  for  he  was  already  at  May's  feet  No 
one  dreamed  that  he  was  to  play  a  prominent 
part  in  sustaining  little  May's  life  while  on  the 
long  and  tedious  journey  of  two  thousand 
miles,  or  that  old  Bose  would  almost  give  his 
life  to  defend  the  grave  of  little  George  Philly. 

At  St.  Joseph  they  joined  a  large  train,  and 
on  April  25  crossed  the  Missouri  River,  and, 
with  thousands  of  other  emigrants,  took  the 
Indian  and  buffalo  trails  leading  to  the  west. 

James  Philly  was  a  prominent  tobacco 
grower,  and,  knowing  well  that  the  average 
tobacco  chewer  would  rather  go  without  his 
bread  than  his  tobacco,  he  loaded  a  wagon 
with  it,  for  which  he  paid  twenty  cents  per 
pound,  and  long  before  he  reached  Fort  Lara- 
mie, only  five  hundred  miles  from  the  Missouri 
River,  he  was  selling  it  at  one  dollar  per  pound. 

The  Indians  soon  learned  that  Philly  had 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  35 

tobacco,  and  they  became  *  his  best  friends. 
They  would  do  anything  for  tobacco  or  whisky. 
On  several  occasions  the  Indians  surrounded 
the  train,  and,  when  Philly  gave  them  a  liberal 
supply  of  tobacco,  they  left. 

On  one  occasion  they  left  Philly's  train,  and, 
going  direct  to  another  one  in  plain  view,  they 
robbed  and  massacred  the  entire  train.  They 
looked  upon  Philly  as  a  great  brave,  and  one 
of  the  gods  that  had  a  great  charm. 

When  the  train  reached  Salt  Lake  City, 
Philly  sold  what  tobacco  he  had  left  for  five 
dollars  per  pound. 

Before  they  reached  the  headwaters  of  the 
Humboldt,  many  cattle  had  died,  and  others 
were  so  poor  and  weak  they  gave  out  and  were 
left  by  the  roadside. 

The  train  was  reduced  almost  to  starvation. 
Little  May,  the  pet  of  the  entire  train,  was 
nothing  but  skin  and  bones.  She  was  so  weak 
and  frail  she  could  not  eat  the  coarse  food. 

One  morning  they  found  a  rabbit  at  the 
door  of  the  tent.  They  dressed  and  cooked  it, 
and,  oh,  how  May  did  relish  that  rabbit !  How 
it  came  there  none  knew,  but,  strange  to  say, 
the  next  morning  there  was  another  rabbit  at 
the  tent  door.  For  the  next  tw^o  weeks,  while 
traveling  down  the  Humboldt,  almost  every 
morning  there  was  a  rabbit  at  the  tent  door. 
All  knew  now  that  the  faithful  house  cat,  Jip, 


36  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

had  brought  them  there,  for  the  willows  along 
the  river  bank  were  full  of  them. 

Although  it  has  been  fifty-two  years  since 
Jip  brought  the  rabbits  to  the  camp,  none  can 
make  Phillip  Philly  believe  but  that  Jip  saved 
his  sister  May's  life. 

When  they  reached  Ragtown  on  Carson 
River,  a  trader  offered  one  hundred  dollars  for 
the  cat,  but,  had  he  offered  twice  that,  he  could 
not  have  bought  old  Jip. 

Twenty  miles  from  Ragtown,  little  George 
Philly  died,  and  was  buried  in  a  lonely  grave 
beneath  a  large  pine  tree.  There  was  no  mar- 
ble slab  to  mark  the  little  pioneer's  grave.  Two 
large  stakes  were  driven  into  the  ground,  and 
on  the  grave  were  piled  immense  rocks  and 
stones.  The  child  was  wrapped  in  his  blanket 
and  laid  in  the  little,  narrow  grave.  The  cold, 
hard  clods  were  piled  upon  him,  and  so  we 
left  him  sleeping  alone  in  the  wilderness.  No 
sound  to  disturb  the  solitude  save  the  soft 
cooing  of  the  dove  and  the  gentle  sighing  of 
the  wind  through  the  pines.  Words  can  not 
describe  the  sorrow  of  that  mother's  aching 
heart  as  she  stood  beside  the  little,  open  grave 
that  was  to  receive  all  that  was  mortal  of  little 
George  Philly.  The  parting  of  that  fond 
mother  and  her  dead  child  was  more  than  the 
frail  body  could  stand.  She  sank  to  the 
ground,  unal)le  to  walk.  They  carried  her  to 
the  wagon.     And  when  the  last  sad  rite  had 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  37 

been  performed  by  tender  hands  and  loving 
hearts,  with  sorrow  the  train  moved  on.  Next 
morning  old  Bose  could  not  be  found.  They 
went  back  to  the  camp  where  little  George  had 
died,  and  found,  near  the  grave,  the  faithful 
dog.  During  the  night  he  had  returned  to 
the  grave.  The  wolves  had  gathered  in  great 
numbers.  Bose  had  tried  to  drive  them  away, 
and  they  had  torn  him  almost  to  pieces;  he 
was  tenderly  cared  for.  and  was  the  first  dog 
to  arrive  in  California.  He  lived  to  be  an  old 
dog,  and  died  at  Dutch  Flat,  Placer  County. 

James  Philly  arrived  in  California,  and, 
after  many  changes,  he  died  in  Santa  Barbara. 
Mrs.  Philly  died  in  Santa  Rosa,  at  the  home 
of  little  May,  while  Phillip  Philly,  now  an  old 
man  and  full  of  rheumatics,  travels  from  place 
to  place  in  search  of  health. 

THE    DUEL. 

If  there  is  anything  that  tries  a  man's  pa- 
tience and  brings  out  his  combativeness  more 
than  any  other  one  thing,  it  is  a  trip  across 
the  plains  with  an  ox  team,  in  company  with 
fifty  or  a  hundred  men.  If  there  is  any  incli- 
nation to  shirk,  or  do  any  little,  mean  trick, 
or  the  slightest  tendency  to  hoggishness,  it 
will  soon  develop  in  him,  hence  so  much  dis- 
content, wrangling,  and  quarreling  in  almost 
every  train. 

We  had  been  traveling  all  day  long  over  a 


38  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

sandy  plain.  Not  a  sign  of  vegetation,  except 
here  and  there  a  little  stunted  grass;  not  a 
weed,  brush,  or  tree.  No  fuel,  except  the 
buffalo  chips,  and  without  kindling  of  some 
kind  it  was  almost  impossible  to  start  a  fire. 
Hence  every  man  was  on.  the  lookout  for 
kindling. 

It  was  the  rule  for  the  team  that  led  the 
train  to-day  to  fall  behind  on  the  morrow. 
There  were  many  advantages  by  being  in  the 
lead.  Less  dust  and  the  choice  of  camping- 
ground.  The  men.  in  the  lead  would  pick  up 
every  stick  of  wood  or  kindling.  As  a  rule, 
the  fortunate  ones  divided  with  those  less  for- 
tunate. But,  unfortunately,  there  was  a  Shy- 
lock  in  almost  every  train. 

John  Gordon  had  been  very  successful  on 
the  day  of  which  I  write.  At  night  he  hid  his 
kindling  under  the  wagon,  and  during  the 
night  it  was  stolen. 

Gordon  accused  Victor  Dutrow,  one  of  the 
men  in  the  rear  wagons,  of  taking  it.  Angry 
words  ensued.  Day  after  day  the  feud  grew 
more  bitter,  many  of  their  friends  taking  sides. 
It  was  soon  evident  there  would  be  bloodshed 
over  the  affair. 

Everything  was  said  and  done  that  could 
be  to  settle  the  affair  peaceably,  but  to  no  avail. 
At  last  it  was  decided  the  men  should  settle  it 
with  firearms,  and  end  the  feud. 

The  preliminaries  were  arranged,  and,  just 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  39 

as  the  sun  was  dipping  his  disk  behind  the 
western  horizon,  the  men  took  their  stand 
twenty- five  yards  apart,  with  their  rifles  in 
their  hands.  I  shall  never  forget  that  scene. 
John  Pennel  gave  the  word,  "One,  two,  three." 
Before  the  last  word  fell  from  his  lips,  Gordon, 
mad  with  rage  and  excited,  took  deadly  aim 
at  his  antagonist  and  fired.  Dutrow,  cool  and 
calm,  fired  his  gun  in  the  air. 

It  now  dawned  upon  Gordon  that  the  men 
had  practiced  a  ruse  on  him ;  there  was  no  ball 
in  his  gun.  He  walked  up  to  Dutrow,  gave 
him  his  hand,  and  they  were  warm  friends 
from  that  day  on,  and  there  was  no  more 
Shylock  in  the  train. 

THE    BUFFALO    CHASE. 

There  are  but  few  pioneers  that  crossed  the 
plains  in  '49  and  '50  who  can  not  call  to  mind 
many  wild  and  exciting  encounters  with  the 
buffalo.  It  was  not  necessary  to  hunt  for 
them,  for  every  day  hundreds  could  be  seen, 
while  it  was  a  common  occurrence  for  them 
to  cross  our  path  and  come  so  near  that  they 
would  make  the  cattle  stampede.  But  to  kill 
a  buffalo  with  the  average  gun  the  emigrant 
had  was  not  so  easily  done,  for  the  animals 
were  so  large  they  appeared  to  be  much  nearer 
to  the  hunter  than  they  really  were.  When 
they  ran,  they  went  about  three  times  faster 
than    the    hunter   thought   they  did,   and  were 


40  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

getting  away  in  double-quick  time.  It  always 
took  a  good  horse  to  bring  the  hunter  up  to 
them,  and  then  they  were  the  hardest  animal 
to  kill  we  found  while  crossing  the  plains. 
The  chase  of  which  I  write  I  deem  worthy  of 
note,  as  it  illustrates  what  fools  men  can  make 
of  themselves. 

We  were  traveling  up  Platte  River,  some 
time  in  May.  Not  many  buffalo  had  been 
killed  by  our  train,  and  for  days  nothing  had 
been  talked  of  but  one  grand  buffalo  chase,  in 
which  we  were  to  kill  not  less  than  a  dozen 
buffaloes,  and  bring  the  meat  to  camp  and  jerk 
it  at  night.  At  last  the  plan  was  all  arranged ; 
twenty-four  men,  twelve  on  horseback  and 
twelve  on  foot,  were  to  join  in  the  chase. 
They  were  to  leave  the  camp  one  hour  before 
the  train  left.  They  had  gone  about  three 
miles  when  they  saw  a  herd  of  buffalo  quietly 
feeding,  as  they  supposed,  one  mile  away, 
while  the  truth  is,  they  were  more  than  three 
miles.  Jerry  Sullivan,  who  had  been  appointed 
to  direct  the  chase,  stationed  the  twelve  men 
on  foot  (the  writer  being  one  of  them)  in  a 
half  circle,  extending  for  a  mile.  Into  this 
trap  or  ambush  the  horsemen  were  to  drive 
the  buffaloes,  and  we  w^ere  to  kill  all  we  wanted, 
and  at  the  same  time  were  not  to  leave  our 
post  until  told  to  do  so  by  one  of  the  horse- 
men. The  writer  and  Victor  Metcalf  took 
their  position  in  a  low  swale  or  ravine,  and 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  4I 

here   we   watched   and   waited   anxiously    for 
the  buffaloes  to  come. 

It  was  noon;  not  a  man  or  buffalo  had  we 
seen  since  taking  our  post.  We  were  with- 
out food,  and  had  but  little  water;  in  the 
distance  we  had  seen  the  train  pass  out  of 
sight.  One  o'clock,  two  o'clock  came,  and 
still  no  buffalo  or  men  could  we  see.  We  had 
left  our  post  and  wandered  over  the  low,  roll- 
ing hills,  taking,  as  we  supposed,  a  cut-off  to 
reach  the  emigrant  trail.  Our  water  had  given 
out,  and  we  were  becoming  weak  for  want  of 
food.  The  sun  had  sunk  to  rest ;  it  grew  dark, 
and  we  came  to  a  small  brook  lined  with  wil- 
lows. It  was  now  almost  dark,  when  a  large 
buffalo  cow  walked  into  plain  view,  not  five 
rods  away,  and  we  fired,  and  she  fell  dead. 
Accidentally  we  had  killed  her;  one  of  the 
balls  had  penetrated  her  head.  We  cut  two 
large  pieces  of  meat  from  the  hind  quarters, 
but  could  not  make  a  fire  for  want  of  matches. 
When  we  had  rested,  we  filled  our  canteen  with 
water,  taking  a  southwest  course,  as  that  was 
the  direction  in  which  we  had  last  seen  the 
train.  Weary  and  faint  we  sat  down  to  rest, 
but  soon  our  hearts  leaped  for  joy,  for  we 
heard  a  train  that  was  traveling  at  night. 
How  rested  our  weary  limbs  were !  We  fairly 
flew  over  the  level  plain,  and  soon  hailed  an 
ox  team.  They  kindly  took  us  in;  but  how 
we  were  surprised  to  learn  that  we  were  not 


42  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

five  miles  from  the  camp  where  we  left  in  the 
morning,  while  our  train  was  not  less  than 
fifteen  miles  ahead.  Next  morning  as  the  sun 
rose,  we  came  up  to  our  train.  Already  they 
had  sent  men  with  water  and  food  for  the  lost 
hunters,  for  lost  they  were;  not  ten  men  had 
come  to  camp.  All  day  long  the  train  remained 
in  camp,  while  not  less  than  fifty  men  were  in 
search  of  the  missing  hunters.  It  was  not  till 
late  at  night  when  the  last  man  was  brought 
to  camp.  Only  three  buffalo  had  been  killed, 
and  not  fifty  pounds  of  meat  had  been  brought 
to  the  train.  Thus  ended  my  first  and  last 
buffalo  chase. 

AN  INDIAN  HUNT. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  scenes  we  wit- 
nessed while  crossing  the  continent  in  1850 
was  an  Indian  hunt.  It  was  Sunday,  July  26. 
We  were  camped  on  a  beautiful  stream  near 
an  Indian  village  of  friendly  Indians.  There 
were  more  than  one  hundred  wigwams.  In 
the  village  were  some  trappers,  who  told  us 
that  the  Indians  were  to  have  a  hunt  that  day. 
Not  a  gun,  bow,  or  arrow  would  they  take, 
so  this  increased  our  curiosity  to  witness  the 
sport.  Early  in  the  day  at  least  two  hundred 
Indians  left  the  village  for  the  hills  two  miles 
away,  marching  in  Indian  file,  one  directly 
behind  the  other,  stepping  in  each  other's 
tracks,  so  that  it  left  but  one  man's  footprint. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  43 

Not  long  after  the  hunters  left,  about  seventy- 
five  old  squaws  left  the  village  and  followed 
the  hunters  to  a  cluster  of  trees  and  under- 
brush. Here  they  secreted  themselves;  nat  a 
squaw  could  be  seen.  When  the  hunters 
entered  the  timber,  they  armed  themselves 
with  clubs  about  three  feet  long,  and  then  sep- 
arated, encircling  hundreds  of  acres  of  land, 
full  of  wild  animals, — bear,  deer,  panther, 
wolves,  wildcats,  raccoon,  and  rabbits.  Ike 
and  Sam  Harris,  Elias  Barney,  William  Jones, 
and  the  writer  had  taken  up  their  position  on 
a  high,  rocky  point  that  overlooked  the  hunt- 
ing ground.  The  sun  had  risen  high  in  the 
cloudless  sky;  we  had  become  impatient  wait- 
ing and  watching  for  the  sport  to  begin.  Not 
an  Indian  could  be  seen,  nor  a  sound  could 
we  hear;  all  was  still  as  death.  At  last  in  the 
distance  could  be  heard  the  wild  and  savage 
yells  of  the  hunters.  It  was  evident  that  they 
were  driving  the  wild  animals  to  the  center 
of  their  ring.  Louder  and  louder  grew  the 
yells;  nearer  and  nearer  they  came,  until  the 
circle  had  grown  so  small  that  the  hunters 
were  two  deep.  The  wild  animals,  frantic 
with  fear,  rushed  from  line  to  line,  only  to  be 
driven  back  with  clubs.  Now  and  then  a  large 
deer  could  be  seen,  with  head  high  in  the  air, 
making  a  dash  for  liberty.  Then,  as  a  wild 
and  savage  yell  would  arise,  the  line  would 
part,  and  away  the  deer  would  go.     Then  the 


44  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

line  would  close  up  and  the  yelling  would  be 
resumed.  The  climax  was  not  reached  until 
a  huge  l)^(^^vn  bear,  with  mouth  wide  open, 
made  a  dash  for  the  line.  It  was  then  the  wild 
tumult  reached  its  zenith.  The  yells  of  the 
excited  mob  made  the  very  hills  tremble. 
Again  the  line  would  part,  and  the  bear  was 
at  liberty.  At  last  the  line  closed  in,  and  the 
cruel  and  brutal  slaughter  began,  beating  and 
clubbing  everything  to  death  inside  of  the  ring. 
Many  of  the  Indians  were  bespattered  with 
blood,  while  the  ground  was  strewn  with  dead 
and  dying  animals.  x\t  last  all  was  quiet. 
The  himters  threw  down  their  clubs  and  took 
up  the  march,  in  single  file,  for  the  village. 
Then  the  old  squaws  came  and  packed  each 
other  with  the  game,  like  mules  and  horses, 
some  of  them  carrying  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds.  That  night  they  held  a  war  dance. 
Then  came  the  feasting,  when  many  of  them 
ate  so  much  they  lay  around  on  the  ground 
like  drunk  men. 

THE    SNOW-STORM. 

Who  has  not  witnessed  a  snow-storm  ?  But 
this  one  I  deem  worthy  of  recording,  as  the 
following  incident  actually  occurred.  It  was 
the  last  day  of  April,  1850.  We  were  travel- 
ing up  Platte  River.  The  sun  had  been  hidden 
from  view  for  two  days;  the  air  was  raw  and 
cold.     The  train  had  camped ;  the  dark  shades 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  45 

of  night  drew  on;  all  but  the  guards  had 
retired,  some  in  the  tents  and  wagons,  while 
many  had  spread  their  blankets  in  the  open 
air.  As  the  small  hours  of  the  night  drew  on, 
the  thin,  white  flakes  of  snow^  began  to  fall, 
and,  when  the  morning  light  fell  upon  the 
camp,  it  was  wrapped  in  a  white  robe  of  snow 
three  inches  deep.  Ox  yokes,  chains,  and 
whips,  pots  and  pans,  beds  and  bedding  were 
buried  three  inches  deep. 

The  men  began  to  shake  the  snow  from  their 
beds  and  put  on  their  clothes.  At  this  point 
the  fun  began.  James  Darling  threw  a  hand- 
ful of  snow  on  William  Boozers  bare  legs. 
This  was  the  signal  for  a  general  free  fight 
with  the  loose  snow.  Men  were  dragged  from 
their  beds,  while  the  blankets  and  tents  were 
torn  from  many  others;  not  less  than  fifty 
men,  barefooted  and  barelegged,  with  nothing 
but  their  shirts  on,  were  all  engaged  in  one 
free  fight  with  the  loose  snow.  Thick  and  fast 
the  snow  flew.  Some  of  the  boys  were  liter- 
ally buried  in  it.  Not  less  than  a  dozen  men 
were  throwing  snow  on  Jake  Doughman.  He 
lost  his  temper,  rushed  to  the  w^agon  for  his 
gun,  and  every  man  made  for  his  tent;  that 
ended  the  sport.  Their  feet  and  legs  were  as 
red  as  lobsters,  while  some  of  them  were  nearly 
frozen. 


46  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

THE  HERO  OF  185O. 

May  I. — It  was  a  lovely  morning.  We  were 
camped  on  Platte  River,  one  mile  from  tliQ 
hills.  As  usual,  the  cattle  and  horses  were 
near  the  camp  and  were  quietly  resting,  while 
all  hands  were  at  breakfast.  John  Samuels, 
of  Arkansas,  had  saddled  his  little  mustang 
horse,  and  had  him  in  camp.  We  were  all 
seated  around  on  the  ground  eating,  when, 
like  a  whirlwind,  fifteen  Indians  on  horseback 
came  from  the  willows  near  by  and  ran  off 
ten  head  of  cattle.  John  Samuels  grabbed  a 
shotgun  and  a  pair  of  old  horse  pistols, 
mounted  his  mustang,  and  pursued  the  fleeing 
Indians.  As  they  reached  the  hills,  he  came 
up  with  them  and  cut  loose  with  his  shotgun, 
wounding  two  Indians.  He  then  used  his 
pistols.  A  real  fight  ensued,  fourteen  Indians 
against  one  white  man;  but  Samuels  stood  his 
ground,  while  the  arrows  flew  thick  and  fast. 
The  Indians  saw  the  other  men  coming,  and 
fled,  carrying  the  wounded  with  them.  Sam- 
uels pulled  six  arrows  from  his  horse  and 
headed  the  cattle  for  the  camp.  It  was  found 
that  three  arrows  had  passed  clear  through 
his  clothing. 

John  Samuels  and  his  brother  Nathan,  who 
was  also  a  member  of  our  train,  settled  in 
Suisun  Valley.  Later  John  moved  to  San 
Francisco,  and  died  there.    A  nephew  is  living 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  47 

near  Rag  Canyon,  Napa  County.  The  famous 
mineral  springs  near  Monticello  bear  our  hero's 
name,  and  were  named  after  the  brothers. 

THE  DEAD  DOG. 

May  6. — One  of  the  most  unfortunate  af- 
fairs that  has  happened  during  our  long  jour- 
ney took  place  last  night.  Joe  Batton  was 
taking  a  dog  to  California.  Batton  had  prom- 
ised the  captain  to  keep  the  dog  tied,  but 
became  careless,  and  allowed  it  to  run  loose  at 
times. 

Last  night  the  dog  left  the  camp  and  went 
among  the  cattle.  Jerry  Gullion,  taking  it  to 
be  an  Indian,  shot  and  killed  it.  That  fright- 
ened the  cattle,  and  they  stampeded;  then  the 
Old  Harry  was  to  pay.  Not  a  wheel  did  the 
train  move  that  day. 

Batton  tapped  his  keg  of  whisky,  got  drunk, 
and  threatened  to  kill  Gullion's  cattle,  and 
Gullion,  too,  if  he  did  not  pay  one  hundred 
dollars  for  the  dog.  Gullion  refused.  A  trial 
was  held,  and  Gullion  was  cleared  of  commit- 
ting any  crime,  and  exonerated  as  a  brave  man 
for  shooting  the  dog.  That  so  exasperated 
Batton  that  he  left  the  train  and  joined  another 
company. 

Peace  prevailed.  Batton  settled  in  Santa 
Rosa,  where  he  lived  for  many  years. 


48  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 


THE   INHUMAN    WRETCHES. 

May  10. — To-day  the  writer  and  John  Blay- 
lock  found  a  man  dead  by  the  roadside.  Two 
stakes  were  driven  into  the  ground,  and  over 
them  was  drawn  a  piece  of  wagon  sheet,  under 
which  the  man  lay.  From  his  appearance  we 
judged  he  had  not  been  dead  long.  By  his  side 
was  a  cup  of  water  and  a  piece  of  hard  bread. 
Near  by  lay  a  card,  with  the  following  on  it : 
''Please  give  this  man  a  cup  of  water  and 
bread,  if  he  needs  it.  He  was  not  able  to 
travel,  and  wanted  to  be  left."  The  truth  is, 
the  inhuman  wretches  had  left  him  there  to 
perish,  while  they  rushed  madly  on  to  the  gold 
fields.  In  the  dead  man's  pocket  was  a  letter 
written  at  Charleston,  Illinois,  and  addressed 
to  William  File,  Council  Bluffs. 

May  12. — Our  train  is  in  a  state  of  rebellion. 
Two  men  quarreled  last  night.  John  Pritch- 
ard  stabbed  William  Smith  with  a  dirk  and 
killed  him.  Pritchard  had  a  trial,  and  was 
acquitted.  Every  one  is  cross  and  ill-natured. 
The  cattle  are  restless  and  will  not  feed.  Two 
men  are  sick.  Some  want  to  travel  with  the 
men,  die  or  not  die.  The  whole  train  is  on  the 
war-path.  Everything  is  wrong.  The  feed  is 
poor.  Wood  is  scarce.  Wind  is  blowing  a 
gale  from  the  north,  cold  as  a  Christmas  morn- 
ing in  Dakota. 

Reader,  did  you  ever  eat  a  meal  in  an  old 


I 


CROSSING    THE    TLAINS    IN     49.  49 

California  corral,  with  the  wind  blowing  thirty 
miles  an  hour,  holding  your  hat  on  with  one 
hand,  trying  to  appease  nature  with  the  other, 
your  bread  and  meat  covered  with  dust  and 
dirt,  the  gravel  and  sand  flying  so  thick  you 
could  not  see?  If  not,  you  know  but  little  of 
the  many  trials  the  emigrants  of  '49-' 50  had. 

May  13. — We  have  had  the  most  exciting 
time  since  we  left  the  land  of  civilization. 

The  cattle  scented  a  band  of  Indians  to-day, 
became  frightened,  and  stampeded.  Almost 
every  team  left  the  beaten  trail,  and  away  they 
went  at  break-neck  speed,  over  the  plain,  which 
was  as  level  as  a  house  floor,  with  here  and 
there  many  deep  gulches  full  of  mud  and 
water.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  stop  them 
until  they  became  exhausted  or  landed  in  a 
gulch,  with  the  wagon  piled  on  top  of  them. 
One  wagon  tongue  was  broken  square  off.  It 
was  repaired  by  taking  a  board  from  the  false 
bottom  in  the  wagon;  after  splitting  this  into 
narrow  strips,  the  strips  were  nailed  securely 
around  the  broken  tongue,  then  they  were 
tightly  bound  with  a  small  rope. 

This  wagon  with  the  broken  tongue  was 
brought  to  old  Hangtown,  and  sold  for 
seventy-five  dollars.  Many  of  the  wagons 
were  capsized  and  the  bows  smashed  and 
broken.  Pots,  tin  pans,  and  cups  w^ere  scattered 
all  over  the  plain. 

May    14. — Sunday.      Rained    all    the    fore- 


50  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

noon;  in  the  afternoon  all  went  fishing  in  the 
Platte  River,  one  mile  away.  The  river  was 
full  of  catfish,  and  every  man  caught  all  he 
wanted.  One  man  was  left  with  each  wagon 
as  a  guard. 

We  had  not  gotten  five  rods  away  when  old 
Bob  Gardener  tapped  the  keg  of  old  rye  whisky 
we  had  brought  for  snake  bite.  ( Every  wagon 
had  a  keg  of  whisky  for  medicine  and  for 
snake  bite.)  In  less  than  an  hour  Bob  was 
drunk  as  a  fool.  He  thought  a  few  doughnuts 
would  be  nice  for  a  change.  When  w^e  re- 
turned, he  was  lying  down.  There  were  a 
sack  of  doughnuts,  and  twenty  pounds  of  sugar 
wasted.  We  had  doughnuts  for  a  month. 
They  got  as  dry  as  hardtack. 

May  15. — Roy  Burges,  who  has  been  sick 
for  three  weeks,  died.  His  death  cast  a  gloom 
over  the  entire  train.  He  was  only  eighteen 
years  old,  and  a  great  favorite  with  all  in  the 
train.  He  came  from  Knoxville,  Tennessee. 
Before  he  died,  he  wrote  a  farewell  letter  to 
his  mother,  and  addressed  it  to  Mrs.  William 
Burges,  Knoxville,  Tennessee.  The  letter  was 
left  in  the  care  of  the  captain  of  the  train, 
John  D.  Chambers.  He  carried  it  to  Sacra- 
mento, and  there  mailed  it.  Chambers  in  after 
years  settled  in  Pleasants  Valley,  and  died 
there  in  1870. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  5I 


UP    THE    PLATTE. 

May  16. — The  sun  rose  from  behind  great, 
black  clouds,  which  were  rolling  up  like  moun- 
tains. This  is  the  land  of  thunder  and  light- 
ning. No  place  on  earth  equals  this  for  hail 
and  rain,  flashes  of  lightning,  and  peals,  of 
thunder  that  make  the  earth  tremble. 

For  two  days  w^e  have  traveled  through  rain 
and  hail,  mud  and  water,  sometimes  knee  deep. 
No  dry  wood  to  be  had  to  get  supper.  The 
buffalo  chips  are  wet,  and  will  not  burn. 
Nothing  to  eat  but  crackers  and  raw  bacon. 

The  country  is  level,  and  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  see  the  road  is  lined  wath  emigrant  wagons, 
covered  with  white  muslin.  On  many  of  the 
wagons  are  mottoes,  such  as,  ''Off  for  Cali- 
fornia," "Pike  County,  Missouri,"  "Prairie 
Flower,"  "California  or  Bust."  The  majority 
of  them  came  from  Missouri,  Wisconsin, 
Michigan,  and  Illinois,  and  there  are  but  few 
trains  of  mules  or  horses.  Eighty  per  cent 
of  the  wagons  are  hauled  by  the  faithful  ox, 
from  two  to  four  yoke  to  a  wagon.  The 
driver,  with  his  long  whip,  walks  by  the  side 
of  his  team  from  morning  till  night.  At  the 
word,  the  faithful  leader  will  go  through  water 
and  mud,  or  plunge  into  a  rapid  stream,  or 
climb  the  steep  and  rocky  mountainside.  Thus 
the  driver  can  take  the  ox  team  where  the  mule 
or  horse  would  not  go. 


(THE    PLAINS   IN     49.  53 


DOG    TOWN. 

One  of  the  oddest  little  creatures  we  found 
in  our  journey  of  two  thousand  miles  was  the 
prairie  dog,  about  as  large  as  the  poodle  dog. 
As  they  sat  up  on  their  hind  legs,  all  over  the 
prairie,  they  resembled  a  miniature  kangaroo. 
The  dogs  were  so  quick  it  took  the  best  of 
marksmen  to  kill  one  fifty  yards  away.  Many 
of  the  men  were  positive  the  dogs  could  dodge 
the  bullets.  They  were  very  fat,  and  we  tried 
to  eat  them,  but  could  not  get  them  down. 

LOOP   FORK   OF   THE   PLATTE   RIVER. 

May  17. — The  sun  looked  out  from  behind 
the  mountains  of  great  black  clouds  for  a 
moment,  and  then  sank  back.  It  was  a  dark, 
gloomy  day.  The  thunder  roared,  and  vivid 
flashes  of  chain  lig;htninje:  ran  along  the  ground. 
Still  on  and  on  we  plodded,  through  water  and 
mud,  the  rain  pouring  down  in  torrents,  while 
every  man  was  wet  to  the  skin.  This  is  the 
worst  day's  travel  we.  have  had  since  we  left 
home. 

When  we  arrived  at  Loop  Fork,  it  was  bank 
full.  There  was  no  ferry  there,  and  some  of 
the  men  went  up  the  river  eighty  miles  to  find 
a  crossing.  There  were  over  three  hundred 
men  anxious  to  find  a  crossing.  The  river 
was  ten  feet  deep,  about  forty  yards  across, 
and  very  sluggish.     For  thirty-six  hours  we 


54  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

cut  and  dragged  willow  brush  to  pile  into  the 
river.  Fifty  men  swam  the  stream  and  piled 
brush  in  on  the  opposite  shore,  until  the  brush 
met.  Then  we  swam  our  cattle  across,  while 
the  men  pulled  the  wagons  over  on  the  floating 
willow  bridge.  The  last  wagon  had  scarcely 
reached  the  bank  when  the  water  took  the 
bridge  away,  and  the  next  train  must  cross 
as  best  it  can. 

Loop  Fork  is  the  home  of  the  buffalo.  Not 
a  tree  to  be  seen.  Thousands  of  buffalo  were 
quietly  grazing  less  than  a  mile  away.  For 
days  the  road  was  lined  with  buffalo  heads  and 
skulls  bleaching  in  the  sun.  (On  Loop  Fork, 
in  1853,  the  writer's  oldest  child  was  born, 
who  is  now  Mrs.  M.  E.  Brown,  of  Acampo.) 

May  20  was  a  perfect  day.  The  sun  shone 
bright  and  warm.  We  had  camped  for  the 
night.  The  wagons,  thirty-six  in  number, 
were  drawn  up  in  a  circle,  the  cattle  in  the 
center  for  protection. 

The  evening  was  calm.  Not  a  leaf  stirred. 
All  nature  seemed  to  be  in  repose.  The  guards 
were  at  their  posts. 

The  small  hours  of  the  night  drew  on,  when 
peal  after  peal  of  thunder  burst  upon  our  ears. 
The  heavens  were  aglow  with  the  flashes  of 
lightning.  The  rain  and  hail  poured  in  tor- 
rents. The  cattle  swayed  from  side  to  side, 
bellowing  and  goring  each  other.  All  hands 
were  called  out  on  guard.    With  one  wild  and 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  55 

mad  rush,  two  hundred  and  fifty  head  of  work 
oxen  went  crashing  over  the  wagons,  tramp- 
ling one  man,  George  Pike,  to  death,  and 
wounding  several  others.  Many  of  the  cattle 
were  not  recovered. 

After  two  days  of  delay,  we  were  on  our 
journey  again,  traveling  through  broad  prai- 
ries and  over  rolling  hills  covered  with  waving 
grass,  like  fields  of  grain. 

To  our  right  and  left  were  thousands  of 
antelope.  These  were  hard  to  kill,  our  com- 
pany killing  only  six  on  the  journey.  Here 
and  there  could  be  seen  a  white  wolf  sneaking 
away  from  some  vacated  camp-ground  with 
a  piece  of  buffalo  meat  that  had  been  left 
there. 

May  21. — This  morning  we  had  an  exciting 
time.  Three  buffalo  ran  into  our  camp.  All 
hands  rushed  for  their  guns,  but  not  until 
twenty  balls  had  entered  his  hide  did  one  of 
the  buffalo  come  to  the  ground. 

In  twenty  minutes  his  hide  was  off  and  his 
carcass  in  the  wagons.  At  night  we  jerked 
the  meat.  This  is  done  by  driving  four  small 
forks  of  wood  into  the  ground.  A  frame  of 
sticks  is  then  made.  The  meat  is  cut  in  thin 
strips,  then  dipped  in  hot  brine  and  hung  over 
the  sticks.  A  small  fire  is  made  under  the 
frame,  and  from  the  heat  the  meat  is  quickly 
dried.  This  is  called  jerked  buffalo  meat.  On 
this  the  emigrants  lived  fine. 


56  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

HOW  JIM  STOAKS  KILLED  HIS  BUFFALO. 

Every  emigrant,  before  leaving  for  Califor- 
nia in  '49-'50,  equipped  himself  with  some 
kind  of  a  gun,  with  which  to  protect  himself 
from  the  Indians,  as  well  as  to  shoot  wild 
game. 

Hence  there  were  firearms  of  all  descrip- 
tions,— double  and  single-barreled  shotguns 
and  smooth-bore  and  double-twisted  rifles. 
The  favorite  gun  was  the  old  Kentucky  rifle, 
with  a  barrel  three  feet  long,  that  carried  sixty 
balls  to  the  pound. 

Then  there  was  the  blunderbuss  of  the  War 
of  1 81 2.  Jim  Stoaks  selected  a  blunderbuss. 
It  was  short,  light,  and  handy.  It  was  a 
dangerous  looking  gun.  It  looked  as  if  it 
would  kill  everything  it  was  pointed  at.  It 
was  a  smooth  bore  and  carried  a  half-ounce 
ball. 

Stoaks  loaded  it  for  Indians  when  we  crossed 
the  Missouri  River.  Days  and  weeks  passed, 
and  no  Indians  needed  killing. 

The  most  ferocious  thing  we  saw  on  the 
plains,  except  a  band  of  friendly  Indians,  was 
a  herd  of  buffalo. 

Jim  became  impatient  to  try  his  gun,  and 
turned  it  loose  on  the  buffalo.  They  were  not 
one-fourth  of  a  mile  away.  Jim  got  under  the 
bank  of  a  creek  and  crept  up  to  within  fifty 
yards  of  them.     He  took  sight  with  both  eyes 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  57 

Open,  and,  shaking  like  a  trembling  aspen  leaf, 
he  pulled  the  trigger. 

It  was  a  flint  lock,  and  it  missed  fire.  Jim 
picked  the  flint  and  took  aim  once  more,  ex- 
pecting to  blow  a  hole  clear  through  that 
buffalo. 

There  was  a  roar,  then  a  crash,  and  Jim 
landed  in  the  bed  of  the  creek,  while  the  gun 
lay  on  the  opposite  bank.  When  the  smoke 
cleared  away,  Jim  looked  for  his  buffalo,  and 
was  just  in  time  to  see  the  herd  go  over  the 
hill  a  mile  away.  Not  a  hair  on  their  hide  had 
been  hurt. 

Should  Jim  Stoaks  live  to  be  as  old  as 
Methuselah,  he  will  never  forget  the  buffalo  he 
did  not  kill. 

A    SABBATH    ON    THE    PLAINS. 

May  24. — Sunday.  The  sun  shone  warm 
and  bright.  The  little  birds  chirped  and  sang 
their  sweet  songs.  The  gray  and  black  squir- 
rels jumped   from  bough  to  bough. 

A  clear  mountain  stream  went  rippling  by. 
On  this  beautiful  stream  we  had  camped  for 
the  day.  What  a  Sabbath  in  the  midst  of  the 
wilderness!  No  ringing  of  the  church  bell, 
no  prattling  of  the  voices  of  happy  children  as 
they  go  to  and  from  the  Sabbath-school,  but 
here  we  are,  two  hundred  and  fifty  impatient 
and  restless  men.  Some  target  shooting,  oth- 
ers hunting,  some  washing,  mending,  and  sew- 


58  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

ing  on  buttons,  others  reading  or  playing  cards 
(for  sport),  while  a  few  of  the  old  patriarchs 
were  holding  prayer-meeting. 

All  were  happy  and  gay.  Alas,  what  a 
change  soon  took  place!  The  cholera  ap- 
peared in  the  train,  and  almost  every  day  we 
buried  a  man. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  scene  and  the  expe- 
rience of  last  night.  Not  a  man  closed  his 
eyes  in  sleep.  During  the  night  Hi  Dudly, 
Jake  Snider,  and  Ben  Ferguson  died.  The 
sick  and  dying  are  in  every  tent.  No  doctor 
to  be  had,  and  but  little  can  be  done.  We  had 
no  cholera  remedies  except  Ayers'  Pain  Killer, 
and  that  gave  no  relief.  Many  were  sick  only 
a  few  hours,  and  then  died.  No  hope  of  relief 
until  we  reach  the  mountains,  where  we  will 
have  cool  nights  and  pure,  cold  water. 

The  wagons  are  full  of  sick  men.  The  train 
will  scarcely  stop  long  enough  to  bury  the  dead. 
The  only  thought  is  to  reach  the  mountains 
and  get  away  from  the  cholera. 

To-day  a  man  overtook  us  and  begged  the 
captain  to  stop  the  train  and  send  men  back  to 
help  bury  some  dead,  but  the  majority  of  the 
men  refused  to  do  it,  so  the  train  rushed  on, 
traveling  all  night. 

May  26. — We  buried  six  men  in  one  grave. 
Nothing  to  mark  their  last  resting-place  but  a 
oile  of  loose  stones  at  the  head  and  foot. 

The   emigrants   on   the  south   side   of   the 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  59 

Platte  River  are  crossing  over  at  Ash  Hollow. 
They,  too,  have  the  cholera.  Every  man  is 
panic-stricken.  Last  night  five  wagons  pulled 
off  and  left  the  train.  The  road  is  lined  with 
emigrants  night  and  day,  striving  to  get  in 
front.  The  death-rate  is  fearful.  We  find 
fresh-made  graves  at  nearly  every  camping- 
place.  Turn  back  you  can't;  go  forward  you 
must. 

LOST  IN  THE  SAN^-HILLS. 

It  was  a  common  occurrence  for  the  emi- 
grants to  take  their  guns  and  look  for  a  cut- 
off. By  this  they  could  save  many  miles  of 
walking,  for  many  emigrants  walked  nearly 
the  entire  distance  from  the  Missouri  River  to 
California. 

On  June  4,  Arthur  Fisk  and  Silas  Rhoads 
had  taken  a  cut-off ;  they  missed  their  bearings 
and  were  lost  in  the  sand-hills.  For  two  days 
and  nights  they  wandered  around  in  the  hills, 
without  food  or  water. 

They  killed  a  small  buffalo  calf  and  broiled 
the  meat  on  the  coals.  When  almost  exhausted, 
they  came  out  on  the  level  plains.  Their  eyes 
were  red  and  bloodshot,  their  tongues  swollen 
and  thick,  and  they  could  scarcely  talk. 

Faint  and  weary,  Fisk  sank  to  the  ground 
and  could  go  no  farther.  Rhoads  left  him  and 
went  in  search  of  water.  Near  by  he  found 
a   stagnant   pool,    and,    filling   his  boot   with 


6o  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

water,  he  carried  it  to  Fisk,  who  soon  revived 
and  made  an  effort  to  walk. 

Rhoads  carried  the  guns  and  a  piece  of 
meat.  They  reached  the  pool  of  water,  and 
in  the  distance  saw  an  emigrant  train  that 
came  within  a  mile  or  two  of  them,  then 
turned  to  the  right  and  left  them.  They  filled 
their  boots  with  water  and  started  for  the  trail. 
vSoon  they  saw  another  train  pass  by.  They 
fired  off  their  guns,  but  the  emigrants,  think- 
ing they  were  Indians,  paid  no  attention  to 
them.  Faint  and  weary,  they  made  one  more 
effort  to  reach  the  emigrant  trail,  but  soon 
sank  to  the  ground.  The  stagnant  water  had 
made  them  deathly  sick. 

Night  set  in.  The  air  was  cool,  and  with 
sage-brush  they  made  a  fire.  Two  of  their 
company  on  horseback,  who  were  looking  for 
them,  saw  the  fire  and  went  to  their  relief. 
They  were  taken  to  the  camp,  and  the  next 
morning  Fisk  died.  Rhoads  was  ill  until  we 
reached  Salt  Lake  City,  where  he  remained 
with  the  Mormons. 

June  6. — We  broke  camp  at  daylight.  The 
stock  had  no  water  or  feed  last  night.  At  ten 
we  camped  on  Squaw  Creek.  This  is  the  ill- 
fated  camp  where  James  Crockett,  of  Arkan- 
sas, while  en  route  for  Oregon  in  1847,  shot 
and  killed  an  inoffensive  squaw.  The  Indians 
at  once  sent  the  squaws  to  the  mountains,  and 
in  less  than  twenty- four  hours  the  train  was 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  61 

surrounded  by  more  than  three  hundred  In- 
dians, demanding  the  man  who  had  killed  the 
squaw.  There  were  only  fifty  white  men  in 
the  train,  and  they  could  go  no  farther. 

After  three  days  of  parleying  with  the  In- 
dians, to  save  the  entire  train,  Crockett  was 
surrendered  to  them.  With  yells  of  triumph 
the  savages  dragged  him  from  the  camp.  In 
plain  view  they  danced  and  yelled  with  hellish 
glee,  torturing  their  victim  with  all  the  means 
known  to  the  savages  of  the  forest.  Then 
they  skinned  him  alive,  and,  when  the  spirit 
had  left  the  body,  and  they  could  inflict  no 
more  pain,  they  tied  his  remains  to  a  wild 
Indian  pony  and  turned  it  loose  on  the  plains. 
Then  the  Indians  let  the  train  proceed  un- 
molested. 

ONLY   ONE   STORM. 

June  10. — We  camped  fifty  miles  below 
Fort  Laramie  on  the  Platte.  The  day  had 
been  a  perfect  one.  Hundreds  of  wagons 
were  in  sight.  Thousands  of  men  were  camped 
within  a  few  miles  of  us.  Everything  was 
calm  and  serene. 

Horror !  What  is  it  that  so  suddenly  causes 
man  and  beast  to  tremble?  A  long,  ominous 
roll  of  thunder  swept  up  out  of  the  distance. 
It  was  evident  a  hurricane  was  approaching. 
The  heavens  had  grown  intensely  dark.  Great, 
black  clouds,  like  mountains,  rolled  up  in  the 


62  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

northwest.  A  faint,  moaning  wind  stirred  the 
tops  of  the  trees.  There  was  now  and  then 
a  drop  of  rain.  A  cold,  shivering  chill  per- 
vaded the  atmosphere.  In  fact,  we  all  felt  the 
air  was  withering"  cold.  A  brilliant  glare  of 
light  burst  suddenly  upon  us.  The  heavens 
seemed  thrown  open  from  end  to  end.  A 
broad  lake  of  quivering  fire  lay  in  the  clouds, 
as  dark  as  pitch.  Only  for  a  second,  then  on 
and  on  came  the  ever-increasing,  rattling  roar 
of  thunder,  that  shook  the  very  earth.  The 
rain  and  hail  poured  in  torrents.  The  tents 
were  torn  from  their  fastenings.  The  beds 
and  clothing  were  buried  in  ice  and  hail  six 
to  seven  inches  deep. 

The  men  sought  shelter  under  the  wagons, 
that  were  blown  over  like  paper  houses.  The 
cattle  and  horses  fled  before  the  storm  in  wild 
confusion,  and  scattered  for  miles  over  the 
plains.  Many  of  the  cattle  and  horses  Avere 
never  found.  In  less  than  one  hour  the  storm 
had  passed.  Ruin  and  destruction  lay  in  its 
wake. 

A    SAD    DAY. 

June  15. — We  camped  on  Platte  River. 
The  day  was  cold  and  gray,  and  a  gloomy  one 
for  all  of  us.  We  found  a  man  dead  in  the 
river,  lodged  against  a  drift.  We  dug  a  grave 
by  the  water's  edge,  and  with  long  poles  we 
rolled  him  in. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  63 

Two  Indian  arrows  still  remained  in  his 
body  to  show  the  cause  of  death.  There  w^as 
nothing  to  tell  who  he  was  except  a  small 
Testament  in  his  pocket,  in  which  was  written, 
"Robert  Vancleave,  Bellefontaine,  Iowa." 

FAREWELL   TO    THE    PLAINS. 

June  19. — To-day  we  reached  the  base  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  and  bade  adieu  to  the  land 
of  thunder  and  lightning,  hurricane  and  cy- 
clone, desert  and  garden,  river  and  plain. 

What  scenes  we  have  witnessed !  what  suf- 
fering and  hardships  we  have  endured ! 

Land  of  the  savage,  through  thy  fields  of 
waving  grass,  over  thy  hills  of  sand,  across 
thy  barren,  sandy  plains,  through  thy  sage- 
brush thickets,  we  have  dragged  our  weary 
bodies  along.  We  have  slept  beside  thy  stag- 
nant pools,  fought  thy  bloodthirsty  inhabit- 
ants, buried  our  companions  in  thy  loose  sand, 
food  for  the  wolves.     Land  of  sorrow,  adieu. 

FORT    LARAMIE. 

June  20. — Here  we  are,  five  hundred  miles 
from  the  Missouri  River.  How  every  heart 
leaps  with  joy  as  we  behold  the  fort,  for  it 
is  the  only  house  we  have  seen  since  we  left 
the  Missouri  River.  The  fort  is  built  of  logs, 
and  will  garrison  one  hundred  soldiers. 

Fort  Laramie  is  located  on  Laramie  River, 
at  the  base  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  at 


64  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

the  junction  of  the  north  fork  of  the  Platte 
River. 

Fifty  soldiers  were  stationed  here.  They 
kept  a  ferry,  and  charged  us  twenty-five  dol- 
lars to  take  a  wagon  across. 

From  here  our  route  lay  up  the  south  side 
of  the  Platte  sixty  miles,  where  we  crossed 
back  over  the  Platte  River.  At  this  point  the 
river  is  rough  and  rapid,  and  we  found  much 
difficulty  in  swimming  our  cattle  across.'  Some 
of  them  we  had  to  pull  over  with  ropes.  Some 
trappers  and  Indians  had  canoes  here,  five  of 
which  were  lashed  together,  with  poles  across 
them.  On  this  the  wagons  were  taken  across 
the  river.  The  water  was  cold  as  ice,  and  ran 
very  rapidly.  One  man  was  drowned  here 
to-day, — Andrew^  Long,  of  Edyville,  Iowa. 
Here  we  enter  the  mountains. 

Our  route  lies  up  the  north  fork  of  the 
Platte  River.  To  our  left  and  in  the  distance 
rises  the  famous  Black  Mountain,  in  after 
years  known  as  Pike's  Peak. 

What  a  wealth  of  gold  and  silver  ore  lay 
buried  in  the  depths  of  these  black  hills! 

We  have  now  reached  the  mountains;  the 
trail  is  very  steep  and  rough.  The  emigrants 
find  they  have  made  a  great  mistake  in  over- 
loading the  teams.  As  a  rule,  the  emigrants, 
when  making  up  their  outfits,  had  but  little 
idea   what   they   needed.      Hence,    everything 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  65 

that  a  man's  wife  or  a  boy's  mother  could 
think  of  was  piled  in  the  wagons. 

Sheet-iron  stoves,  feather  beds,  pillows,  pil- 
low-slips, blankets,  quilts  and  comforters,  pots 
and  kettles,  dishes,  cups,  saucers,  knives,  and 
forks.  Many  of  these  things  about  as  much 
use  to  the  emigrant  as  two  tails  to  a  dog. 

Talk  about  clothing,  some  men  had  enough 
to  last  five  years.  The  writer  saw  men  with 
trunks  full  of  white  shirts  and  plug  hats. 

To  cap  the  climax,  one  man  was  hauling  a 
great  walnut  bedstead.  He  took  it  to  Oregon. 
The  wagons  were  full  to  the  tops  of  the  bows, 
and  were  twice  as  heavy  as  they  should  have 
been.     Hence,  every  team  was  overloaded. 

The  cattle  soon  began  to  give  out,  and  the 
emigrants  began  to  throw  away  their  baggage. 
Out  went  the  cook  stove,  then  the  feather  beds 
and  pillows  and  pillow-slips,  for  they  were  as 
black  as  the  ground.  The  road  was  lined  with 
all  kinds  of  baggage.  This  the  Indians  gath- 
ered up  and  carried  ofif. 

June  25. — This  morning  before  sunup  we 
broke  camp  and  were  ready  for  another  day's 
hard  work. 

There  was  a  slight  drizzle  of  rain  falling. 
Rain  and  sunshine  w^ere  alike  to  us,  and  we 
pulled  out  of  camp. 

We  are  now  climbing  the  Rocky  Mountains. 
These  are  filled  wnth  deep,  dark  canyons, 
through  w^hich  torrents  of  icy  water  go  rush- 


66  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49, 

ing  to  the  Atlantic,  thousands  of  miles  away 
in  the  east. 

Here  we  find  great  forests  where  the  brown 
and  cinnamon  bear,  the  panther,  and  thou- 
sands of  other  wild  animals  roam  unmolested. 
Here  is  the  home  of  the  red  men  of  the  forest. 
Among  them  are  some  of  the  most  savage  and 
w^arlike  tribes  on  the  continent. 

As  we  near  the  summit,  the  valleys  grow^ 
narrower,  until  they  form  great  canyons,  that 
dip  deeper  and  deeper,  until  they  form  an  im- 
penetrable barrier  to  our  progress. 

All  day  long  we  have  followed  the  steep 
and  rocky  trail,  cutting  logs  and  rolling  rocks 
out  of  the  w^ay,  bridging  canyons  and  gulches. 
Now  up  some  long,  narrow  mountain  slope, 
then  down  into  some  deep,  dark  canyon,  then 
up  out  of  the  canyon  the  train  must  climb. 

Our  long  train  of  ox  teams,  winding  around 
the  steep  and  rough  mountainside  like  some 
great  serpent,  a  man  at  every  wheel,  the  driver 
urging  the  poor  brutes  toward  the  summit. 
The  task  was  one  that  made  the  strongest 
heart  grow  sick.  All  day  long  we  have  been 
climbing  over  rocks  and  up  the  steep  mountain- 
sides. Logs  and  brush  must  be  cut  out  of 
the  way,  and  rocks  rolled  out  of  the  trail. 

Night  has  overtaken  us,  and  no  camping- 
ground  has  been  found.  The  cattle  are 
chained  to  the  trees,  with  no  w^ater  or  food. 
Many  of  the  men,  weary  with  the  toils  of  the 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  67 

day,  ate  crackers  and  raw  bacon,  and  were 
glad  to  get  it. 

When  supper  was  over,  we  gathered  around 
the  bright  camp-fire,  smoked  our  pipes,  and 
talked  of  the  trials  of  the  day. 

I  lay  on  my  back,  looking  up  at  the  bright 
stars  in  the  deep  blue  of  the  cloudless  sky,  and 
listened  in  fulness  of  contented  delight  to  the 
chat  of  my  companions.  I  remember  well 
how  my  heart  beat  with  joy  to  know  that  we 
had  at  last  reached  the  Rocky  Mountains  and 
the  cholera  had  left  us.  I  lay  and  listened, 
and  the  tales  told  that  night  by  the  men  sit- 
ting around  the  camp-fire  have  never  been 
erased  from  my  memory. 

The  mountains  are  steep,  rough,  and  rocky. 
Our  train,  consisting  of  forty-six  wagons,  two 
hundred  and  seventy-six  oxen,  and  two  hun- 
dred men,  as  it  went  rattling  down  the  steep 
mountainside  sounded  like  distant  thunder, 
that  could  be  heard  for  miles. 

The  wagons  are  yet  overloaded,  and  many 
of  the-  best  cattle  are  lame.  Their  feet  are 
bleeding,  and  they  are  giving  out.  On  June 
26  we  shod  our  first  ox.  The  ox  is  turned 
on  his  back  and  two  pieces  of  thin  iron  nailed 
on  each  foot. 

June  27. — We  passed  through  Blue  Can- 
yon. Here  the  cliffs  rise  on  either  side  of  the 
trail,  six  to  seven  hundred  feet  high,  assu- 
ming fantastic  forms, 


68  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

It  was  here  we  found  the  grandest  and  most 
enchanting  scenery  we  had  yet  beheld.  The 
towering  chffs,  the  wild  blue  water  as  it  leaps 
from  rock  to  rock,  splashing  and  foaming  in 
its  mad  rush  to  reach  the  waters  below. 

High  up  on  the  jagged  cliff  stands  the 
mountain-sheep,  gazing  in  wonder  at  the 
strange  intruder. 

As  the  noon-day  sun  penetrates  this  dark 
chasm,  throwing  a  mellow  light  from  cliff  to 
cliff,  all  blends  in  one  perfect  hue  of  blue. 
The  rocks,  the  cliffs,  the  trees  and  foliage,  the 
men,  the  wagons  and  oxen,  are  all  transformed 
into  a  perfect  blue. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  scenes  in  this  wild 
canyon. 

As  I  stood  beside  great  piles  of  bacon  and 
flour,  piled  higher  than  my  head,  a  notice  on 
every  pile,  ''This  is  clean ;  help  yourself,"  little 
did  I  dream  that,  long  before  we  reached  the 
gold  fields,  many  of  us  would  be  starving  to 
death.  Here  in  one  pile  was  more  than  five 
tons  of  flour  and  bacon,  left  behind  to  lighten 
up  the  loads.'  This  the  Indians  would  not  eat 
for  fear  of  poison. 

INDEPENDENCE    ROCK. 

No  description  can  do  adequate  justice  to 
the  grandeur  and  majestic  beauty  of  this  rock. 
It  was  named  by  Colonel  Freemont,  who  eel- 


e 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  69 

ebrated  the  Fourth  of  July  here  iu  1842.  He 
was  then  exploring  the  Rockies.  Independence 
Rock  was  the  landmark  by  which  the  trappers 
and  the  gold  hunters  steered  their  ox  teams 
o  the  gold  fields  of  California. 

Independence  Rock!  There  it  stands  like 
some  great  sentinel  keeping  guard  over  the 
sacred  bones  of  departed  Indian  warriors. 
Could  that  old  sentinel  relate  the  scenes  it  has 
witnessed,  the  very  blood  would  curdle  in  our 
veins. 

The  air  never  seemed  so  fresh  and  cool  as 
it  did  in  the  shadow  of  this  great  sentinel.  It 
is  located  on  Sweet  Water,  and  stands  five 
hundred  feet  high.  It  is  two  hundred  feet  in 
diameter  at  its  base.  Thousands  of  names 
were  carved  on  this  rock  by  emigrants  as  they 
passed  by.  They  had  climbed  as  high  as  they 
could.  The  highest  name  of  all  was  Cisro 
Dowd,  of  Ohio. 

On  this  old  sentinel  I  saw  the  names  of 
William  Palmer  and  Henry  Seamon.  This 
was  the  first  trace  I  had  seen  of  the  company 
that  left  me  sick  at  St.  Joseph.  ^ 

On  July  10,  i<S50,,  James  Tongue,  of  South 
Carolina,    fell   from  the  rock  and  was  killed. 

From  here  our  route  lay  up  Sweet  Water, 
a  beautiful  stream  of  pure,  cold  water,  that 
went  dashing  along  over  its  rocky  bottom. 

The  monotony  of  travel  is  broken  by  the 


76  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

ever-changing  scene.  Every  mile  new  scenery, 
grand  and  enchanting,  bursts  into  view.  The 
towering  and  rugged  cHffs,  the  scraggy  rocks, 
the  graceful  pine,  the  weeping  hemlock,  the 
leaping  brook  filled  with  speckled  trout,  all 
helped  to  whirl  away  the  time. 

To-day  we  passed  a  large  Indian  burying- 
ground,  the  first  we  have  seen.  To-night  we 
camp  near  an  Indian  village  of  seventy-five 
wigwams.  The  old  bucks  were  hale-looking 
men.  All  were  armed  with  bows  and  arrows. 
A  few  had  flintlock  guns.  I  saw  one  who  had 
an  old  seven-barreled  pepper-box  pistol.  There 
w^ere  hundreds  of  papooses  and  dogs.  Here 
we  saw  the  first  Indian  dogs.  They  all  look 
like  prairie  wolves.  The  squaws  and  children 
were  mucli  attached  to  them,  and  would  not 
part  with  them  at  any  price. 

The  only  thing  of  interest  was  the  accumu- 
lation of  filth  and  dirt.  Great  piles  of  bones 
lay  heaped  up  everywhere. 

Next  morning  they  gathered  around  the 
train  in  great  numbers  and  demanded  provi- 
sions. This  the  captain  refused,  but  a  liberal 
supply  of  tobacco  was  given  to  the  chief.  This 
satisfied  them,  and  they  gave  us  no  more 
trouble.     The  train  moved  on. 

Last  night  we  camped  near  the  summit. 
Here  we  breathe  the  pure  mountain  air,  drink 
the   ice-water   as   it   trickles   down    from   the 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  71 

banks  of  snow.  We  sit  around  tiie  Drigiu 
camp-fire,  talk  of  home  and  the  scenes  we  have 
left  behind.  A  new  heaven  seems  to  encircle 
us.  New  hope  has  risen  in  every  heart.  Be- 
hind us  lie  eight  hundred  miles  of  toil  and 
hardship. 

Wrapping  our  blankets  around  our  weary 
bodies,  we  retire  to  rest,  with  the  blue  canopy 
of  heaven  for  our  tent.  The  bright  stars  smile 
upon  us  as  we  slumber.  We  all  rejoice  that 
the  dreaded  cholera  has  left  the  train. 

SUMMIT   OB-  THE   ROCKY   MOUNTAINS. 

Come,  dear  reader,  and  stand  with  me,  July 
15,  fifty-two  years  ago,  on  this  great  plateau 
eight  hundred  miles  from  the  Missouri  River, 
and  nine  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the 
sea,  and  I  will  show  you  one  of  the  grandest 
scenes  in  the  world. 

When  we  look  back  toward  the  rising  sun, 
eight  hundred  miles  of  uninhabited  wilderness 
lies  behind  us.  Here  on  the  summit  in  this 
pass  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful  springs  of 
cold  water  in  the  world.  It  flows  out  into  a 
great  marsh  grown  up  with  willows  and  bul- 
rushes. There  are  two  outlets  from  the  marsh 
or  spring.  One  flows  east,  and  finds  it  way 
into  the  Missouri  River,  thence  into  the  Mis- 
sissippi  River,   and   thence   into   the  Atlantic 


72  CROSSING    THE    1 'LA INS    IN     49. 

Ocean  at  New  Orleans,  two  thousand  miles  in 
the  east. 

The  other  outlet  flows  into  the  Lewis  and 
Clark  River,  thence  into  the  Columbia,  and 
finds  its  way  to  the  Pacific  Ocean,  fifteen  hun- 
dred miles  to  the  west. 

July  10. — The  night  was  clear  and  cool. 
Far  overhead  the  stars  sparkled  like  diamonds 
against  the  dark  background  of  the  sky,  and 
looked  dow'U  on  the  slumbering  train,  while 
the  Indians  crept  upon  the.  guards  and  drove 
off  twenty  head  of  cattle. 

This  was  our  first  encounter  with  the  In- 
dians. Many  of  the  men  were  asleep  in  the 
tents.  In  the  midst  of  the  hurricane  of  yells 
and  screams,  and  the  satanic  clatter  of  horse 
and  cattle  hoofs,  the  men  rushed  from  the 
tents  with  their  guns.  By  this  time  the  fight 
was  over  and  the  Indians  had  fled  with  the 
cattle.  Fifteen  men  on  horseback  went  in  pur- 
suit. Two  Indians  were  killed.  James  Mc- 
Connell  was  wounded  with  a  poisoned  arrow. 
He  came  from  Marietta,  Ohio. 

But  few  can  realize  what  it  means  to  be 
wounded  with  the  poisoned  dart  of  an  Indian 
arrow.  Far  from  medical  aid,  no  tender 
hands  to  bind  up  the  painful  wound.  Then  to 
be  put  in  a  wagon  and  hauled  for  days  and 
weeks  over  a  rough  and  rocky  road. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  a  day's  travel 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IX     49.  73 

over  a  rough  and  rocky  road  when  refer  ring- 
to  the  journey  across  the  plains  with  an  ox 
team  in  '49. 

July  II,  1850. — The  morning  star  was  shin- 
ing brightly  when  the  train  broke  camp.  We 
entered  a  long,  rocky  canyon.  For  miles  we 
climbed  over  rocks  and  boulders  that  seemed 
to  deny  our  passage,  then  up  over  a  dividing 
ridge,  and  down  into  a  deep,  dark  canyon. 

Twenty  times  we  cross  and  recross  the  same 
stream,  cutting  brush,  making  road,  filling  in 
rocks,  and  building  bridges. 

To-day  we  saw  where  a  train  had  tried  to 
make  its  way  along  the  mountainside.  At  last 
they  could  go  no  farther.  They  abandoned 
two  of  the  wagons  that  were  in  the  lead.  The 
rest  of  the  train  they  let  down  into  the  canyon 
by  ropes. 

Where  our  train  left  the  canyon  the  moun- 
tain was  so  steep  it  required  six  to  eight  yoke 
of  oxen  to  draw  a  wagon  up  over  the  preci- 
pice. At  last  we  reached  a  small  plateau  and 
camped   for  dinner. 

From  here  our  route  lay  down  a  long,  rough 
divide,  but  it  ends.  The  train  takes  a  dip 
down.  Down  we  go.  The  bright  stars  were 
already  dotting  the  blue  canopy  of  heaven 
when  we  camped  on  a  beautiful  stream.  It 
has  been  a  long  day,  and  we  made  slow^  prog- 
ress.    Every  hour  was  full  of  wild  experience. 


ECHO  CANYON. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  75 

Many  of  the  men  flung  themselves  down  on 
the  ground,  and,  without  supper,  were  soon 
lost  in  sweet  sleep. 

ECHO    CANYON. 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  by  description  or 
picture  anything  like  a  correct  idea  of  the 
grandeur  and  beauty  of  this  canyon.  It  is 
the  home  of  the  mountain-sheep.  Here  they 
live  in  great  numbers.  .Vnd  yet  it  is  almost 
impossible  for  the  hunter  to  kill  one.  At  the 
least  sound  they  are  off  with  the  fleetness  of 
the  reindeer. 

Echo  Canyon  is  a  deep  mountain  gorge, 
with  red  and  gray  mountain  walls  from  one 
to  two  thousand  feet  high.  For  miles  along 
this  mighy  chasm  the  stream  rushes  and  leaps 
from  rock  to  rock  with  fearful  velocity.  The 
rocks  in  many  places  along  the  canyon  are 
worn  into  fantastic  shapes,  resembling  ruined 
castles,  with  minarets  and  spires.  From  the 
cliffs  and  canyons  the  Indians  swoop  down  on 
the  careless  and  unsuspecting  emigrants. 

On  July  25,  1852,  a  lonely  train  of  three 
wagons  camped  in  Echo  Canyon.  They  had 
become  careless,  and  no  guards  had  been  put 
out.  In  the  stillness  of  the  night,  wdien  all 
were  wrapped  in  slumber,  the  Indians  crept 
down  to  the  train,  and,  with  hellish  yells  and 
uplifted  tomahawk,  they  rushed  upon  the  sleep- 


76  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

ing  emigrants  and  massacred  the  entire  train. 

In  1853,  when  we  passed  this  ill-fated  camp, 
the  wagons  still  remained  there.  The  emi- 
grants who  had  been  massacred  were  all  buried 
in  six  large  graves. 

There  was  one  scene  here  in  this  grand  can- 
yon the  wTiter  will  never  forget.  There  on  a 
beautiful  knoll,  overshadowed  by  a  grove  of 
graceful  pines,  was  a  lonely  grave,  protected 
by  an  immense  pile  of  rocks. 

On  a  small  piece  of  board,  which  had  been 
sawed  from  the  wagon  bed  and  nailed  to  a 
tree,  was  inscribed,  ''Hank  Seamon,  age  32 ; 
born  in  Malta,  Morgan  County,  Ohio."  I 
read  it  over  and  over,  and  I  could  hardly  real- 
ize that  I  was  standing  by  the  grave  of  one 
with  whom  I  had  left  my  happy  home.  This 
was  the  second  trace  I  had  seen  of  the  train 
since  they  crossed  the  Missouri  River  and  left 
me  sick  at  St.  Joseph. 

THE    MAN    THAT    SOLD    HIS    WIFE. 

As  early  as  1853  many  women  and  children 
crossed  the  plains.  Jake  Fonts  and  his  young 
wife  joined  our  train  at  Council  Bluffs  on  the 
Missouri  River.  They  came  from  Bellefon- 
taine,  Iowa.  Long  before  we  reached  the  gold 
fields  (as  the  sequel  of  this  story  proves),  every 
man  and  woman  regretted  the  day  they  joined 
the  train. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  77 

We  had  scarcely  gotten  started  when  Mrs. 
Fonts  raised  a  row  with  one  of  the  ladies,  then 
with  some  man.  She  was  constantly  quarrel- 
ing with  some  one,  and  when  not  successful 
in  finding  a  victim  to  quarrel  with,  she  always 
had  her  husband  to  fall  back  on,  and  she  did, 
and  then  she  would  make  it  lively  for  him. 

When  we  reached  the  Indian  territory,  and 
she  saw  the  first  Indians,  she  became  hysteri- 
cal. At  first  we  all  thought  the  woman  was 
dying  (and  some  wished  she  had  died). 

About  twice  a  week  she  had  one  of  these 
hysterical  fits.-  Sometimes  while  walking 
along  the  road  she  would  throw  up  her  arms 
and  scream,  then  down  in  the  road  she  would 
go;  three  or  four  men  would  pick  her  up  and 
dump  her  into  the  wagon,  where  she  would  lay 
for  two  or  three  hours.  After  she  recovered, 
she  was  ready  for  a  fight  with  the  first  one  who 
would  quarrel  with  her. 

During  the  trip  she  tried  several  times  to 
shoot  her  father-in-law,  who  was  with  them. 
Thus  she  kept  things  lively. 

Her  husband  tried  to  give  her  away,  but 
no,  siree,  we  all  knew  her  too  well. 

On  Carson  River  we  met  some  traders.  She 
took  a  fancy  to  one  of  them.  Fonts  saw  his 
oppoftunity,  and  sold  her  to  him  for  three 
hundred  dollars.  .  It  was  a  day  of  rejoicing 
when  we  saw  her  leave  the  train. 


78  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

The  trader  took  her  to  Hangtown  and  gave 
her  to  a  gambler,  and  that  was  the  last  we 
heard  of  her. 

BROWN    AND   THE   BUFFALO. 

One  of  the  most  amusing  scenes  we  wit- 
nessed while  crossing  the  plain  in  1850  was 
near  Ash  Hollow,  on  Platte  River.  The  great 
luminary  of  the  day  had  run  its  course  and 
was  sinking  to  rest  behind  the  snow-capped 
mountains  in  the  distance,  when  the  train 
drove  into  camp.  Near  by  were  a  large  buf- 
falo bull,  two  cows,  and  a  calf.  James  Brown, 
Walter  Woods,  and  Jerome  Swim,  who  were 
carrying  their  guns,  rushed  up  to  them  and 
fired;  the  calf  fell  wounded,  and  then  com- 
menced to  bawl.  The  cows  made  for  the  hills, 
while  the  bull,  with  head  down,  came  bellow- 
ing, rushing  for  the  nearest  man, — James 
Brown.  His  gun  was  a  muzzle-loader,  and 
he  had  no  time  to  load,  and  so  he  made  for  a 
large  rock  near  by,  but  soon  discovered  that 
he  could  not  get  upon  it.  He  then  began  to 
run  around  the  rock,  and  the  bull  pursued  him ; 
but  in  making  the  short  circles  around  the  rock 
Brown  was  the  faster,  and  instead  of  the  bull 
catching  him,  he  held  his  own.  It  was  a  chase 
for  life  or  death.  Around  and  around  the 
rock  they  went.  Brown  had  dropped  his  gun, 
and  was  running  for  dear  life.     Fortunately 


*       OF  THF 

UNIVERSITY 

or 
^i  irofVK^ 


John  A.  De  Villiss 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  79 

Woods  and  Swim  came  to  his  relief,  and  shot 
the  bull,  and  so  ended  the  chase.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  Brown  heard  the  last  of  his  buffalo 
bull. 

THE    MAMMOTH    TRAIN. 

April  13,  1865,  before  the  door  of  a  neat 
cottage  in  Canton,  on  the  Mississippi  River, 
in  Louis  County,  Missouri,  stood  an  emigrant 
w-agon  and  four  restless,  impatient  horses. 

In  the  wagon  was  the  young  bride  of  four 
months  who  had  resolved  to  accompany  her 
husband,  John  A.  Devilbiss,  to  the  land  of 
gold  to  seek  a  home. 

The  handshaking,  ''God  be  with  you,"  and 
they  w-ere  off  for  the  Pacific  Coast.  They  soon 
joined  other  emigrants  and  formed  a  small 
train. 

They  crossed  the  Missouri  River  at  Platts 
mouth,  and  took  the  old  emigrant  trail  lead- 
ing up  the  Platte  River.  The  Indians  w^ere 
hostile.  Not  a  day  passed  but  scores  of  sav- 
ages could  be  seen  on  the  war-path,  heinously 
painted,  armed  with  rifles,  bows    and  arrows. 

The  emigrants  now  organized  a  large  train 
for  mutual  protection.  Several  small  trains 
were  joined  together  and  formed  a  mammoth 
train  of  one  hundred  and  twenty-eight  wagons, 
three  hundred  mules  and  horses,  one  hundred 
and  seventy-four  head  of  oxen  and  milk  cows, 
making  a  total  of  five  hundred  and  twelve  head 


8o  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

of    stock.      There    were    three    hundred    and 
eighty-four  men,  women,  and  children. 

Doctor  Fronda  was  elected  captain,  and  the 
train  was  known  as  the  "Fronda  Train/' 
Every  man  was  well  armed,  and  the  train 
moved  along  with  the  order  of  an  army. 

Days  and  weeks  came  and  passed,  and  noth 
ing  worthy  of  note  transpired. 

From  May  lo  they  were  beset  with  diffi- 
culties. On  the  20th  a  sad  accident  occurred. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Snider,  while  riding  in  the 
wagon,  were  accidently  shot.  A  gun  that  was 
hanging  on  the  bows  of  the  wagon  was  dis- 
charged by  the  jolting  of  the  wagon.  The 
ball  passed  through  Snider' s  body  and  w^ounded 
Mrs.  Snider  in  the  chest.  Dr.  Fronda  ex- 
tracted the  ball,  and  after  ten  days'  delay  the 
train  moved  on. 

Snider  arrived  in  California,  and  settled  in 
Mendocino  County,  where  he  still  lives.  Mrs. 
Snider  died  in  1891. 

On  June  15  another  sad  accident  occurred. 
There  was  a  family  of  mutes  in  the  train  by 
the  name  of  Walls,  three  men  and  one  woman. 
The  train  had  camped.  During  the  day  many 
Indians  had  been  seen  lurking  in  the  willows. 
A  man  by  the  name  of  Watts  saw  one  of  the 
mutes  approaching  the  train.  It  was  dark, 
and,  supposing  him  to  be  an  Indian,  Watts 
shot,  killing  him  instantly.    This  almost  caused 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  8 1 

a  rebellion  in  the  train.  To  pacify  the  mutes, 
Watts  was  disarmed  of  all  his  firearms. 

June  18  had  been  a  lovely  day.  Not  a  cloud 
in  the  sky.  Not  an  Indian  or  buffalo  had  been 
seen.  The  train  had  camped  on  Platte  River. 
The  night  was  calm  and  sultry.  The  train 
was  wrapped  in  slumber.  The  small  hours  of 
the  night  drew  on.  The  horses  and  cattle  were 
quietly  resting  near  camp,  guarded  by  thirty- 
five  men  on  horseback.  Without  a  moment's 
warning  they  sprang  to  their  feet;  the  mules 
were  braying,  the  cattle  bellowing,  lowing,  and 
goring  each  other.  With  one  wild  and  mad 
rush,  five  hundred  head  of  horses  and  oxen 
went  tearing  through  the  guards.  By  some 
unknown  means  the  red  devils  had  stampeded 
the  entire  train.  The  clatter  of  the  horses' 
hoofs,  the  bellowing  and  lowing  of  the  cattle, 
made  a  roaring  like  distant  thunder.  The 
sleeping  men  sprang  from  their  beds  with  rifles 
in  hand,  and  surrounded  the  train,  to  protect 
the  women  and  children,  while  Mr.  Devilbiss 
and  the  rest  of  the  guard  followed  the  fright- 
ened stock.  At  break  of  day,  when  they  had 
them  checked,  they  were  thirty  miles  from 
camp. 

The  redskins  saw  the  emigrants  were  in 
such  numbers  and  on  their  guard,  and  did  not 
dare  to  attack  the  train,  so  failed  to  get  any 
plunder. 


6 


82  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

June  20  the  train  reached  the  sand-hills. 
Not  a  tree  or  shrub  could  be  seen.  Not  a  stick 
of  wood  could  be  found.  Sand,  sand  every- 
where, and  cooking  must  be  done.  But  the 
women  and  children  proved  themselves  equal 
to  the  occasion.  It  was  amusing  to  see  them, 
old  and  young,  gathering  buffalo  chips  for  fuel. 
As  none  but  the  driest  ones  would  burn,  and 
as  it  required  at  least  a  bushel  of  chips  to  cook 
a  meal,  it  was  no  easy  task.  Some  of  the  chips 
looked  as  though  they  might  be  fifty  years  old. 
They  were  white  as  cotton  and  as  light  as 
feathers,  and  burned  like  charcoal. 

July  2  was  a  sad  day.  One  of  the  Walls' 
little  boys  died,  making  the  second  death  in 
the  family  since  they  left  the  Missouri  River. 

July  the  4th  was  not  only  a  day  of  patriotic 
rejoicing,  but  a  day  long  to  be  remembered  by 
every  one  in  the  train,  from  the  fact  that  there 
were  two  births,  and  they  were  both  girls. 
After  a  few  days'  delay)  the  train  moved  on. 
In  less  than  a  week  there  was  another  birth, 
and  the  train  must  camp. 

After  many  delays  and  six  months  of  long 
and  weary  travel,  they  arrived  at  Carson  City 
on  September  i6,  where  Mr.  Devilbiss  re- 
mained for  four  years,  and  then  moved  to 
Yolo  County  and  settled  near  the  spot  on  which 
Winters  now  stands.  In  1889  Mr.  Devilbiss 
built  the  Winters  Hotel,  a  fine  brick  building. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IX      49.  83 

at  a  cost  of  $31,000.  Mr.  Devilbiss  is  still 
the  popular  proprietor,  and  is  known  far  and 
near  as  a  kind  and  hospitable  landlord. 

A  SUPPER  ON  THE  PLAINS. 

There  are  but  few  pioneers  of  '49-' 50  who 
can  not  call  to  mind  the  difficulties  they  experi- 
enced in  preparing  a  supper  on  the  plains  after 
a  long',  hard  day's  travel. 

Though  the  menu  was  very  plain,  it  was 
sometimes  difficult  to  prepare.  As  a  rule,  it 
consisted  of  hot  bread,  fried  bacon,  coffee  or 
tea,  with  sugar. 

Should  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Methuselah,  I 
shall  never  forget  the  fifteenth  of  May,  1850. 
All  day  long  we  had  been  traveling  through 
a  cold,  drizzling  rain.  Many  of  the  men  had 
walked  all  day  through  the  mud  and  water,  and 
were  wet  to  the  skin. 

The  train  had  not  stopped  for  dinner,  but 
we  ate  a  lunch  as  we  walked  along.  It  was 
almost  dark  when  the  train  drove  into  camp. 
Many  of  the  men  were  out  of  humor  and  ill- 
natured.  Some  were  cursing  the  captain  for 
traveling  in  the  rain,  while  others  were  cursing 
the  storm.  A  few  were  in  high  spirits  and  took 
everything  in  good  humor. 

To  add  to  the  unpleasantness  of  the  situa- 
tion, there  was  no  feed  for  the  cattle  near  the 
camp,  and  they  must  be  taken  a  mile  or  two 


84  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

to  the  hills  and  guarded  overnight.  The  men 
took  a  lunch  and  left  without  supper. 

It  was  now  raining  hard,  with  a  cold  south- 
west wind  blowing  at  the  rate  of  thirty  miles 
per  hour.  We  struck  our  tents  and  kindled 
our  fires.  There  was  not  a  stick  of  dry  wood 
to  be  had.  Bob  Smith  had  found  an  ox  yoke 
during  the  day,  and  put  it  in  the  wagon.  It 
was  dry  and  hard.  This  was  divided  around 
the  camp  for  kindling,  and  made  many  a  coffee- 
pot boil. 

If  bread  was  to  be  made,  a  large  tin  pan 
was  used  as  a  kneading-trough.  A  liberal 
quantity  of  saleratus  and  warm  water  were 
stirred  together;  the  requisite  amount  of  flour 
and  salt  were  added,  and  the  dough  well 
kneaded.  The  dough  was  then  flattened  out 
until  about  one  inch  thick,  then  it  was  placed 
in  an  old-fashioned  skillet  or  Dutch  oven  with 
an  iron  lid.  It  was  then  set  on  the  coals,  and 
a  small  fire  was  built  on  the  lid,  and  by  the 
time  the  meat  w^as  fried  and  the  coffee  made, 
the  bread  would  be  done.  Sometimes  the  top 
and  bottom  would  be  burned  as  black  as  a 
coal,  while  the  center  was  still  raw. 

On  the  occasion  of  which  I  am  telling  you. 
supper  was  progressing  nicely,  when  the  coffee 
pot  upset  and  put  out  the  fire.  Just  then  old 
Bob  Smith,  who  was  getting  supper,  exploded. 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  scene  or 


Capt.  S.  N.  Harriman 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  85 

repeat  the  language  that  followed.  '  At  last 
supper  was  ready.  Each  man  took  a  tin  cup 
of  hot  coffee,  a  slice  of  bacon,  and  a  chunk  of 
hot  bread,  as  yellow  as  saffron,  and  thanked 
his  lucky  stars  that  kind  Providence  had  once 
more  smiled  upon  him.  Then  the  pots  and 
dishes  were  stowed  away,  and  we  wrapped 
ourselves  in  our  blankets  and  were  soon  lost 
in  refreshing  sleep,  dreaming  of  home  and  the 
gold  fields  in  California. 

GREEN    RIVER. 

July  18. — Arrived  at  Green  River.  This  is 
one  of  the  most  dangerous  streams  we  have 
crossed.  The  water  is  icy  cold  and  very  rapid. 
There  was  no  ferry.  Some  trappers — white 
men,  about  half  wild,  with  Indian  squaws  for 
wives — had  some  canoes,  for  the  use  of  which 
we  gave  them  an  ox  that  was  lame.  In  swim- 
ming the  cattle  across,  Joe  Butler,  of  Iowa, 
took  the  cramps,  and  was  drowned.  His  body 
was  carried  down  the  stream,  and  was  not 
recovered.     This  was  in  1850. 

THE   ROBBERS. 

Few,  if  any,  of  those  who  crossed  the  plains 
in  '49  had  a  narrower  escape  from  death  than 
Captain  S.  N.  Harriman,  of  Howard  County, 
Missouri. 

In   i86t    Mr.   Harriman  organized  a  large     1 


86  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

train,  consisting  of  tliirty-six  wagons,  sixty- 
four  men,  forty  women,  and  ten  children. 

They  also  had  twenty-five  saddle  horses,  ten 
milk  cows,  and  three  dogs.  Mr.  Harrinian 
was  elected  captain  of  the  train. 

On  May  3  he  left  St.  Joseph  for  the  gold 
fields  in  California.  From  the  day  the  train 
left  the  Missouri  River  they  were  beset  with 
troubles  and  trials,  sickness  and  death,  then 
rebellion,  robbery,  and  starvation. 

They  had  reached  Sweet  Water,  when  James 
Gibson  rebelled  and  refused  to  stand  guard. 
After  some  parleying,  the  captain  gave  him 
just  ten  minutes  to  get  his  gun  and  go  on 
guard,  or  he  would  hang  him  to  the  nearest 
tree.  Gibson  wilted,  and  walked  sulkily  to 
his  post. 

On  another  occasion  the  dogs  frightened 
the  cattle,  causing  them  to  run  away  and  smash 
up  several  wagons,  wounding  a  boy.  The  cap- 
tain then  had  the  dogs  killed.  This  caused 
more  trouble  in  the  train. 

Through  trials  and  difficulties  they  reached 
Raft  River,  and  camped  for  the  night.  Every- 
thing was  quiet.  The  most  of  the  women  had 
retired,  when  the  train  was  surrounded  by  a 
band  of  robbers,  who  demanded  the  surrender 
of  the  entire  train,  or  they  would  kill  every 
man,  woman,  and  child.  After  a  deliberate 
consultation,  they  surrendered  the  train  to  the 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    ^49.  87 

robbers,  and  walked  out  into  the  dark,  and 
took  the  trail  for  California  on  foot,  the  men 
carrying  the  small  children.  They  were  al- 
lowed to  take  their  blankets  and  what  provi- 
sions they  could  carry. 

How  fared  it  with  them  after  the  robbers 
drove  them  out  on  the  desert? 

August  2,  about  one  hundred  men,  women, 
and  children  began  their  long  and  perilous 
journey  of  eight  hundred  miles. 

What  words  can  portray  the  emotions  of 
the  mother's  heart  as  she  walked  out  of  the 
tent  with  her  loved  ones  into  the  dark,  possibly 
to  perish  with  starvation. 

Oh,  how  long  and  weary  the  days  were  to 
the  hungry  children  as  they  trudged  along  with 
their  little  packs! 

Through  the  kindness  of  Captain  Harriman 
we  had  access  to  his  diary. 

August  I. — The  robbers  took  the  train  a 
little  after  dark.  Hitched  up  the  cattle  and 
drove  off  with  the  wagons. 

August  2. — They  make  their  first  day's  jour- 
ney on  foot.  Men,  women,  and  children 
packed  like  animals.  Boys  and  girls  not  over 
eight  years  old,  each  with  a  few  pounds  of  pro- 
visions on  their  backs. 

A  picture  no  artist  can  draw.  The  scene 
is  beyond  comparison.  The  day  was  cool,  and 
they  made  a  good  day's  journey.    They  camped 


88  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

on  Spring  Run,  where  the  water  was  good  and 
wood  was  plentiful. 

August  3. — Not  a  cloud  in  the  horizon. 
Hot  and  sultry.  They  camped  near  the  river 
in  the  willows.  The  mosquitoes  nearly  ate  the 
children  up. 

August  4. — Women  and  children  discour- 
aged.    Had  but  little  rest  last  night. 

August  5. — Left  camp  at  daylight.  It  is 
so  hot  the  children  can  not  travel  in  the  heat 
of  the  day. 

August  6. — The  road  has  left  the  river  and 
leads  through  the  sage-brush  hills. 

August  7. — Still  in  the  sage-brush.  The 
sand  is  loose  and  soft.  The  children  can 
scarcely  walk  in  it. 

August  8. — The  heat  has  increased,  but  the 
road  has  led  back  to  the  river,  and  they  find 
shelter  in  the  willows  from  the  terrible  heat. 

August  9. — Yesterday  the  water  we  found 
was  warm  and  full  of  alkali.  The  roads  were 
the  worst  they  had  since  the  robbers  took  the 
train. 

August  10. — Grandpa  Kelsey  is  sick,  and 
they  have  to  camp.  Poor  old  man,  he  has 
given  out.  Isaac  Gill  and  Ben  Foote  carried 
his  pack  all  day. 

August  II. — Camped  on  Salt  Creek. 
George  Devill  killed  a  deer,  and  they  jerked 
the  meat  and  distributed  it  around  the  camp. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  89 

August  12. — They  travel  down  Humboldt 
and  camp  on  Snake  Creek.  Harvey  Kincade 
and  Nathan  Kelsey,  while  on  guard,  killed 
six  snakes. 

August  13. — Neal  Hughes  and  John  Smith 
took  a  cut-off.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  "cut-on," 
as  they  did  not  arrive  in  camp  till  late  in  the 
night.     They  were  almost  famished  for  water. 

August  14. — Camped  on  Humboldt.  Some 
of  the  men  fished  all  night,  and  caught  many 
small,  flat  fish.     In  Ohio  we  call  them  shiners. 

August  15. — Have  been  on  half  rations  ever 
since  the  robbers  took  the  train,  though  the 
children  under  eight  years  old  have  all  they 
w^ant  to  eat. 

August  16. — Day  by  day  they  drag  their 
weary  limbs  along.  Many  of  the  women  are 
almost  barefoot.  Some  of  them  have  their  feet 
tied  up  with  rags,  and  can  be  traced  by  the 
blood  on  the  sand. 

August  17. — James  McDonnel  is  sick,  and 
they  have  to  camp.  Drank  alkali  water,  and 
came  near  dying. 

August  18. — Many  of  the  men  and  women 
went  fishing,  and  caught  great  quantities  of 
small,  bony  fish,  but  have  no  lard  to  fry  them 
in.  They  roast  them  in  the  coals  or  ashes,  or 
boil  them. 

August  19. — All  are  able  to  travel.  An 
amusing    incident    took   place    to-day.      Isaac 


90  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

Johnson  gave  out  and  refused  to  go  any 
farther.  Grandpa  Kelsey  offered  to  carry  him 
and  his  pack.  This  so  irritated  Johnson  that 
he  picked  up  his  pack  and  led  the  company  the 
rest  of  the  day. 

August  20. — T.  B.  Cropper  and  J.  B. 
Warder,  while  on  guard  last  night,  killed  a 
large  deer.  The  meat  was  jerked  and  all 
had  a  share. 

August  21. — This  has  been  the  hottest  day 
we  have  experienced,  and  we  are  still  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  miles  from  the  Humboldt 
meadows. 

August  22. — The  road  is  hard  and  level,  and 
the  women  and  children  walk  with  wonderful 
courage. 

August  23. — John  Lamb  and  Richard  Reede 
came  near  being  drowned  while  seining  with 
a  brush  seine. 

August  24. — Have  not  seen  a  white  man 
since  the  robbers  took  the  train. 

August  25. — Grandpa  and  Grandma  Kdsey, 
though  eighty  years  old,  led  the  company  nearly 
all  day.  Criss  Leonard  and  W.  H.  Harriman 
carried  their  packs  for  them. 

August  26. — Cool  and  nice.  Road  good. 
Walked  nearly  all  day. 

August  27. — Some  of  the  women  and  chil- 
dren are  lagging  far  behind.  Only  traveled 
a   few   miles   to-day.      Mrs.    Reede   and    Mrs. 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  9 1 

Harrimaii  are  not  well,  and  they  camp.  Per- 
fect harmony  has  prevailed  ever  since  the  rob- 
bers took  the  train. 

August  28. — Reached  the  Humboldt  mead- 
ows.    All  are  happy  and  in  good  spirits. 

August  29. — Not  a  cloud  to  be  seen.  The 
sun  is  beaming  down  on  the  little  band  of 
heroic  emigrants  that  are  battling  for  their 
lives. 

The  night  they  crossed  the  forty-mile  des- 
ert, Mr.  Harriman's  daughter  gave  out  and 
sank  down  on  the  sand.  No  words  could  pre- 
vail on  her  to  move.  At  last  her  father  told 
her  that  they  must  leave  her  to  die,  or  the 
whole  company  would  perish  when  the  sun 
rose.  With  an  heroic  effort,  and  the  aid  of 
the  men,  she  rose  to  her  feet  and  made  her 
way  to  Ragtown. 

It  was  just  one  month  to  a  day  from  the 
time  the  robbers  took  the  train  until  the  day 
they  reached  Ragtown,  where  they  received 
relief. 

On  September  28  Captain  Harriman  arrived 
in  Yolo  County,  with  just  twenty-five  cents  in 
his  pocket.  He  now^  resides  in  Winters,  at  the 
ripe  old  age  of  eighty-seven  years.  He  is  well 
known  and  beloved  as  Father  Harriman. 

A    FIGHT    WITH    THE   INDIANS. 

One  can  not  scan  these  pages  without  real- 
izing   at    a    glance    that    every    pioneer    who 


92  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

crossed  the  plains  in  an  early  day  bore  his  full 
share  of  hardships,  difficulties,  and  dangers 
in  order  to  reach  the  gold  fields.  Though  all 
along  the  route  the  land  teemed  with  game, 
and  the  waters  were  full  of  fish,  yet  many 
sickened  and  died,  while  others  perished  for 
want  of  food  and  water. 

Many  men  and  women  wxre  robbed  and 
massacred  by  the  Indians  and  the  children  car- 
ried off  into  the  wilderness. 

As  late  as  1861  it  was  no  light  undertaking 
to  cross  the  plains  with  an  ox  team.  While 
some  trains  passed  through  the  Indian  terri- 
tory unmolested,  others  were  beset  with  dan- 
gers and  difficulties  from  the  day  they  crossed 
the  Missouri  River. 

The  writer  is  indebted  to  Mr.  Pratt  for  the 
following  narrative : — 

In  1 86 1,  E.  D.  Pratt,  in  company  with 
Captain  Woodman,  left  Waincenter,  Dupage 
County,  Illinois,  for  the  new  Eldorado.  At 
Omaha  they  joined  a  large  train  of  seventy- 
six  wagons,  three  hundred  head  of  oxen, 
thirty  head  of  milk  cows,  and  twenty  head  of 
saddle  horses. 

In  this  train  there  were  three  hundred  and 
four  men,  women,  and  children.  They  had 
scarcely  started  on  their  long  and  tedious  jour- 
ney when  the  captain  and  many  of  the  men 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  93 

were  wrangling  over  the  management  of  the 
train. 

To  add  to  their  already  numerous  trials,  the 
Indians  were  hostile  and  on  the  war-path. 
Days  and  weeks  of  intense  anxiety  and  excite- 
ment passed. 

They  had  reached  the  Black  Hills,  six  hun- 
dred miles  from  the  Missouri  River,  and  were 
camped  on  a  beautiful  mountain  stream.  The 
bank  was  lined  with  willows.  The  water  was 
pure  and  cold.  Wood  was  to  be  had  in  abun- 
dance, and  the  mountainside  was  covered  with 
waving  grass,  dotted  with  flowers  of  a  thou- 
sand hues,  which  filled  the  air  with  sweet 
fragrance.     It  was  an  ideal  camp-ground'. 

A  long,  hot,  sultry  day  in  June  was  draw- 
ing to  a  close.  The  skies  grew  dark,  the  atmos- 
phere thick  and  heavy.  All  felt  the  oppression. 
It  had  grown  intensely  dark.  A  strange  and 
ominous  quiet  rested  on  the  camp.  A  death- 
like stillness  pervaded,  such  as  ofttimes  pre- 
cedes some  calamity. 

To  add  to  the  already  extreme  solitude,  a 
great  hoot-owl  set  up  his  "to-hoot,  to-hoot," 
then  another  and  another,  until  the  mountains 
seemed  filled  with  hoot-owls. 

It  was  evident  the  Indians  were  preparing 
to  attack  the  train.  The  emigrants  were  not 
long  left  in  doubt,  for  like  a  mighty  tornado 
a  band  of  Indians  on  horseback  rushed  upon 


94  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

the  guards.  With  helHsh  yells  and  savage 
triumph  they  stampeded  the  cattle  and  fled  to 
the  mountains. 

In  the  fight  they  killed  Silas  Grant.  When 
they  carried  him  to  camp,  thirteen  arrows  still 
remained  in  his  body.  His  brother  William, 
who  had  been  sick  many  weeks,  saw  him.  The 
shock  w^as  so  great  that  he  died  before  morning. 

Mr.  Pratt,  who  was  on  guard  and  in  the 
hottest  of  the  fight,  with  twenty  other  men  on 
horseback,  followed  the  fleeing  Indians  for 
many  miles,  and  recovered  all  the  cattle  but  six. 

The  next  day  the  two  brothers  were  wrapped 
in  their  blankets  and  were  buried  in  one  grave. 
Strange  to  say,  no  one  else  was  wounded, 
although  several  arrows  passed  through  their 
clothing. 

After  six  long  months  of  toil  and  hardship, 
they  arrived  at  Sacramento. 

Mr.  Pratt,  now  at  a  ripe  old  age,  has  a 
pleasant  and  happy  home  near  Winters. 

RATTLESNAKE  CANYON. 

July  17. — Passed  through  Rattlesnake 
Canyon.  The  scenery  down  this  canyon,  once 
beheld,  can  never  be  forgotten.  Narrow  and 
rocky,  with  high  cliffs  on  each  side.  Not  a 
drop  of  water  to  be  had  in  the  canyon.  Under 
nearly  every  rock  and  in  every  hole  was  a 
snake.     Not  only  rattlesnakes,  but  snakes  of 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  95 

every     description,     including     great     buffalo 
snakes  five  to  six  feet  long. 

No  wonder  the  emigrants  with  every  wagon 
hauled  a  keg  of  old  rye  whisky  for  snake  bite. 
And,  strange  to  say,  not  an  emigrant  was 
bitten  by  a  snake  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pa- 
cific. Nevertheless,  every  drop  of  snake-bite 
remedy  was  gone  long  before  we  reached  the 
gold  fields  in  California. 

To-day  we  reached  the  headwaters  of  White 
Rock  Canyon.  From  here  we  make  a  rapid 
descent  into  the  Great  Salt  Lake  Valley.  In 
after  years  the  rock  was  quarried  from  this 
canyon  for  the  building  of  the  Mormon  temple. 
July  18. — Long  before  the  great  luminary 
of  the  day  lit  up  the  mountain  peaks,  we  broke 
camp.  Every  heart  beat  with  joy,  for  we  were 
only  twenty-five  miles  from  Salt  Lake  City. 
Down  this  canyon  was  the  roughest  road  we 
had  found. 

As  two  great  trains  went  thundering  down 
over  the  rocks,  they  could  be  heard  five  miles 
away. 

We  struck  the  valley  eighteen  miles  below 
the  city.  What  a  contrast  between  the  wild 
and  rugged  mountains  we  had  been  traveling 
through  and  this  beautiful  valley,  spread  out 
before  us  and  stretching  off  to  the  west  for 
fifteen  miles  to  the  lake  shore,  fertile  and  rich, 
with  thousands  of  acres  of  golden  grain,  and 


96  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

here  and  there  an  occasional  field  of  waving 
corn! 

Here  I  saw  the  sharpest  razor-back  and 
longest-nosed  hogs  in  the  world.  They  were 
wild  hogs  they  had  found  in  the  mountains. 
One  old  sow  with  eleven  pigs  looked  as  if  she 
could  chase  a  grub  worm  into  his  hole  and 
root  it  out  of  its  nest.  When  fat,  some  of 
them  would  weigh  six  to  eight  hundred  pounds. 

We  also  saw  ducks,  geese,  and  turkeys. 
They  were  the  only  ones  we  saw  from  the 
Missouri   River  to  the  Pacific  Coast. 

THE    STOLEN    BOY. 

This  little  book  contains  no  sadder  story 
than  the  one  told  to  the  writer  by  William 
Phillips,  the  uncle  of  the  stolen  boy,  Jackson 
Reynolds,  the  hero  of  this  story.  William 
Reynolds,  wife,  and  boy,  four  years  old,  left 
Paduca,  New  York,  going  to  Lee  County, 
Iowa,  by  stage.  Here  they  bought  an  outfit, 
which  consisted  of  one  wagon  and  three  yoke 
of  cattle.  April  3,  1852,  they  left  Keokuk, 
bound  for  California,  the  land  of  gold,  sun- 
shine, and  flowers.  At  Bellefontaine  they 
joined  the  Runyon  train,  from  Wisconsin. 
From  here  they  made  their  way  to  Coun- 
cil Bluffs,  on  the  Missouri  River,  then  the 
starting-point  for  overland  emigrants  to  the 
Pacific    Coast.      May    6    they    crossed    the 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  97 

Missouri  River,  and  took  the  trail  up  the 
south  side  of  Platte  River,  and  everything 
went  lovely  until  they  reached  the  sand- 
hills three  hundred  miles  from  the  Mis- 
souri River.  Here  they  found  feed  and 
water  scarce,  and  the  cattle,  already  poor  and 
weak,  began  to  give  out.  The  train,  which 
consisted  of  seventy-five  wagons,  two  hundred 
and  fifty  men,  women,  and  children,  four 
hundred  and  twenty  head  of  oxen  and  milk 
cows,  soon  began  to  separate,  that  the  cattle 
might  get  more  feed.  William  Reynolds,  wife, 
and  one  child;  Charles  Bradley,  wife,  and  three 
children;  Cyrus  Moore  and  wife;  also  seven 
other  men  and  five  wagons,  pulled  off  and 
left  the  large  train.  When  near  Fort  Laramie, 
the  Indians  stole  five  head  of  cattle,  shot  and 
wounded  one  horse  so  he  had  to  be  killed. 
From  this  day  on  their  tronbles  and  trials  be- 
gan. When  they  reached  Independence  Rock, 
on  Sweet  Water  River,  the  Indians  stampeded 
the  cattle  and  succeeded  in  driving  off  three 
head.  This  so  reduced  the  number  of  cattle 
that  they  were  compelled  to  leave  one  wagon. 
July  15,  while  camped  on  the  summit  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  Mrs.  Bradley  died  with 
mountain  fever.  She  had  been  sick  three 
weeks  in  the  wagon.  Her  death  threw  a  sad 
gloom  over  the  little  band  of  pioneers.  With-* 
out  coffin  or  box,  they  buried  her  beneath  a 


98  CROssiNc;  tjik   i'Lajxs  ix   '49. 

scraggy  pine  on  a  high  point  that  overlooked 
the  barren,  sandy  plains  they  had  just  crossed. 
With  three  motherless  children  and  sorrow- 
ing hearts  they  left  the  sad  and  lonely  camp- 
ground. Little  did  they  dream  what  was  still 
in  store  for  that  brave  little  band  of  pioneers. 
Clothing  and  provisions  had  been  thrown  away 
to  lighten  the  load,  their  cattle  reduced  to  two 
yoke  to  each  wagon.  The  road  was  rough 
and  rocky;  the  mountains  were  steep  and 
rough,  and  they  were  compelled  to  leave  an- 
other wagon  behind.  At  Green  River  they 
took  the  road  that  led  by  Fort  Hall.  Provi- 
sions were  almost  gone,  and  but  little  money 
left,  so  they  sold  one  wagon  for  thirty  dollars 
and  twenty-five  ])ounds  of  jerked  deer  meat. 
Their  road  now  led  through  the  barren,  sandy 
hills,  covered  with  sage-brush  and  grease- 
wood,  with  but  little  feed  and  water.  When 
they  reached  the  Humboldt  River,  they  found 
the  Indians  hostile,  and  they  joined  another 
small  train.  They  now  felt  secure,  and  neg- 
lected to  keep  out  a  guard  over  the  cattle. 

August  3  was  a  day  never  to  be  forgotten 
by  that  little  band  of  pioneers.  They  had 
camped  in  the  bend  of  the  river:  feed  was 
good :  the  cattle  were  quietly  grazing  in  the 
twilight,  when,  like  a  tornado,  a  band  of  In- 
dians, mounted  on  ponies,  rushed  from  the 
willows  and  stampeded  the  cattle,  and  fled  for 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  99 

the  hills  two  miles  away.  The  men  pursued 
the  fleeing  Indians,  and  got  most  of  the  cattle. 
'Mid  the  savage  yells  and  wild  confusion  that 
followed,  two  Indians  rushed  into  camp,  slew 
Mrs.  Moore,  and,  catching  up  little  Jackson 
Reynolds,  they  fled  to  the  willows  near  by, 
and  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  No  pen  can 
describe  the  heart-rending  screams  of  that  fond 
mother  as  they  rang  out  on  the  still  night  air, 
"Oh,  my  child,  my  child !"  As  the  savages 
fled,  the  cries  of  the  poor  boy  grew  fainter  and 
fainter,  until  they  were  lost  in  the  distance 
and  could  be  heard  no  more.  For  more  than 
three  weeks  they  remained  in  camp,  searching 
up  and  down  the  river  for  the  stolen  boy,  but 
no  trace  of  him  could  be  found.  At  last,  with 
sorrowing  hearts,  they  left  the  ill-fated  camp- 
ground. After  six  months'  toil  and  hardships, 
sickness  and  death,  they  arrived  at  Weaver- 
ville. 

Weeks,  months,  and  years  rolled  by,  and  no 
tidings  of  the  stolen  boy  came.  When  the 
sorrowing  hearts  could  bear  the  suspense  no 
longer,  the  fond  father  resolved  to  make  one 
more  effort  to  find  their  boy.  Three  times  did 
William  Reynolds  visit  the  Humboldt  River 
to  wander  through  the  mountains  and  to  visit 
manv  tribes  of  Indians,  journeying  down 
through  Colorado,  and  coming  out  at  Los 
x\ngeles,  weary  and  tired,  having  lost  all  hope 


too  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

of  finding  his  lost  boy.  With  an  aching  heart 
he  turned  his  steps  towards  his  sad  home. 
When  near  the  Tehachapi  Mountains,  he 
camped  for  the  night,  and,  as  the  dark  shades 
of  night  drew  on,  a  pack  train  came  up  and 
camped, — two  Mexicans  and  a  sunburnt  youth, 
dressed  in  buckskin.  The  mustang  horses  were 
unloaded,  hobbled,  and  turned  out  to  feed. 
Sitting  around  the  dying  embers,  they  smoked 
their  pipes  and  cigarettes,  but  the  young  man, 
weary  with  the  day's  toil,  soon  fell  into  a 
sound  sleep,  while  the  Mexicans  listened  to 
the  strange  story  William  Reynolds  told  them 
of  his  stolen  boy.  Then,  in  broken  English, 
they  told  him  how,  in  years  gone  by,  some 
Mexican  miners  in  Mexico  had  rescued  a  boy 
from  a  band  of  roving  Indians.  With  eager- 
ness the  father  caught  every  word  as  it  fell 
from  the  Mexican's  lips.  Then,  in  hurried 
accents,  he  asked  his  name.  The  Mexicans 
could  give  none,  but  pointed  to  the  young  man, 
now  sound  asleep.  The  father  could  no  longer 
suppress  his  emotions;  he  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and  before  the  Mexicans  could  realize  what 
was  taking  place,  the  father  had  aroused  the 
weather-beaten,  sunburnt  youth,  and  in  hur- 
ried and  excited  tones  he  begged  him  to  tell 
him  his  name.  What  words  can  describe  the 
joy  of  that  father,  when  he  told  him  his  name 
was  Reynolds.     Little  by  little  did  he  tell  the 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  lOl 

Strange  story,  how  in  his  youth  he  had  been 
stolen  by  the  Indians ;  how  they  had  wandered 
up  and  down  the  vast  wilderness,  inhabited 
only  by  savages  of  the  forest.  Long  did  the 
fond  parent  fold  his  long-lost  son  to  his  throb- 
bing heart,  while  the  two  poor  Mexicans  were 
overjoyed  to  know  they  were  the  means  of 
uniting  father  and  son.  Long  before  the  sun 
had  lit  up  the  snow-capped  peaks  of  the  Sierra 
Mountains,  father  and  son  were  hastening  to 
that  little  log  cabin  on  the  bank  of  Weaver 
Creek. 

Let  us  draw  the  curtain  and  shut  out  the 
careless  eye  from  that  joyful  meeting  of  mother 
and  son.  After  so  long  a  separation,  William 
Phillips,  now  old  and  feeble,  lives  with  his 
nephew,  Jackson  Reynolds,  in  Amador  County, 
California. 

SALT    LAKE    CITY. 

July  20. — The  morning  dawned  bright  and 
beautiful.  The  sun  looked  out  from  his  cloud- 
less throne  in  the  heavens,  and  kissed  the  lake 
and  mountain  peaks  as  sweetly  as  though  the 
Mormons  were  a  Christian  people. 

The  first  glimpse  of  the  city  made  every 
heart  leap  with  joy,  for  we  were  approaching 
life  and  civilization. 

What  emigrant,  after  so  long  a  journey, 
would  miss  the  opportunity  of  a  bath  in  the 
beautiful  lake?     A  few  moments,  and  all  the 


I02  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

men  were  floating  around  on  the  lake  like  so 
many  corks.  The  density  of  the  water  is  so 
great  a  man  can  not  sink.  Horses  and  cattle 
can  not  swim  in  it ;  they  simply  turn  over  on 
their  sides  and  flounder  in  the  water. 

In  July,  1847,  Brigham  Young  located  the 
city  and  made  it  the  rendezvous  of  the  Mor- 
mons. 

It  is  a  model  city.  The  streets  are  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  feet  wide,  bordered  on  either 
side  with  long  rows  of  shade  trees.  Streams 
of  pure  mountain  water  were  conducted  in 
ditches  along  both  sides  of  all  the  streets. 

Salt  Lake  City  is  nestled  in  the  Great  Basin 
between  the  Rocky  and  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Mountains.  What  a  strange  religion,  or  fanat- 
icism, has  led  this  people  to  seek  this  wild  and 
secluded  spot,  surrounded  by  savages  and  wild 
beasts! 

The  fields  were  full  of  wild  flowers.  A  beau- 
tiful stream  of  cold  water  flowed  through  every 
field.  The  geese,  pigs,  and  children  swarmed 
in  great  numbers,  for  in  every  house  there 
were  two  to  three  women.  Here  we  saw  the 
only  chickens  in  our  journey  of  two  thousand 
miles. 

When  we  entered  the  city  fifty-two  years 
ago,  there  were  but  few  places  of  note,  except 
the  Tabernacle.  It  resembled  a  large  kettle 
turned  bottom  upwards.     Near  by  was  Brig- 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  I03 

ham's  residence,  known  as  the  Beehive.  Here 
lived  his  twenty-five  wives  and  one  hundred 
concubines.  Some  of  these  were  old,  while 
others  were  very  young.  As  for  beauty,  they 
compared  with  the  rest  of  his  flock.  Many  of 
them  were  foreigners.  Now  and  then  there 
were  lively  times  at  the  Beehive.  Over  one 
hundred  children  called  him  papa. 

While  in  the  city,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  an 
introduction  to  Brigham  Young.  A  man  of 
medium  height,  thick  set,  short  neck.  His  face 
was  full  and  round.  He  wore  a  dark  suit  of 
homespun  goods.  He  was  a  man  of  fine  ap- 
pearance, and  in  the  ])rime  of  life.  Every  word 
that  fell  from  his  li])s  was  law  and  gospel  to 
his  followers.  He  ruled  with  an  iron  hand, 
and  there  was  perfect  law  and  order  in  his 
domaiir. 

Our  stay  in  the  city  was  a  pleasant  and  de- 
lightful one,  and,  had  it  not  been  for  the  gold 
fields  in  California,  many  young  men  would 
have  remained  there. 

It  was  our  good  fortune  to  spend  a  Sab- 
bath with  these  deluded  people.  The  sun  rose 
bright  and  warm.  All  nature  seemed  to  smile. 
The  waving  grain,  the  rich  fields  of  corn,  the 
graceful  shade  trees  along  the  streets,  lent  their 
charms  to  the  day  of  rest.  ^ 

All  labor  was  suspended.  The  men.  women, 
and  children  put  on  their  best  to  attend  preach- 


I04  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

ing-  in  the  Tabernacle,  conducted  by  Brigham 
Young. 

The  road  was  Hned  with  wagons.  I  shall 
never  forget  that  Sabbath.  In  every  wagon 
(they  had  no  carts  or  carriages)  were  one 
man,  two  to  five  women,  and  children  by  the 
dozen. 

At  an  early  hour  the  Tabernacle  was  filled 
to  overflowing. 

It  is  a  country  where  the  sunlit  hills  and 
rich  valleys  reflect  themselves  in  the  lives  of 
these  sober,  industrious  people.  For  there  is 
no  place  in  the  world  where  the  contrast  is  so 
vividly  portrayed  between  civilization  and  the 
savages  of  the  forest. 

Salt  Lake  Valley  is  one  of  the  garden  spots 
of  the  earth.  All  kinds  of  produce  were  cheap. 
The  Mormons  did  not  care  for  our  money,  as 
pumpkins  were  a  legal  tender.  Spices  of  all 
kinds  were  high.  Cinnamon,  cloves,  ginger, 
nutmeg  and  allspice,  sugar,  tea,  cofTee,  and 
rice  were  five  dollars  per  pound,  while  we 
could  buy  a  fresh-made  cheese  as  large  as  a 
small  wash-tub  for  one  dollar.  Butter  ten 
cents  per  pound.  And  we  could  get  a  cart-load 
of  eggs  for  a  pound  of  tea. 

As  a  class,  the  Mormons  were  sober,  clean, 
and  industrious,  also  ignorant  and  happy. 
They  had  no  communication  with  the  outside 
world.     They  knew  but  little  about  the  dis- 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  IO5 

covery  of  gold  in  California,  and  nothing  about 
the  roads. 

From  Salt  Lake  City  two  roads  led  to  the 
gold  fields.  One  trail  went  south  of  the  lake, 
crossed  the  River  Jordan,  and  over  the  Hum- 
boldt Mountains.  This  trail  was  called  "Hum- 
boldt Cut-off."  Many  men  and  cattle  perished 
on  this  route  in  1850  for  the  want  of  water. 

The  river  Jordan  is  the  outlet  to  Salt  Lake. 
It  drains  the  valley  and  finds  its  way  into  the 
Colorado  Desert. 

We  found  Salt  Lake  Valley  a  great  oasis  in 
the  heart  of  the  wilderness,  surrounded  on  the 
east,  north,  and  west  by  wild,  rough,  and 
rugged  mountains. 

After  eight  days'  feasting,  recreation,  and 
rest,  we  bade  adieu  to  these  kind  and  hospitable 
people  and  took  the  trail  that  led  to  the  north 
of  the  lake.  This  trail  also  led  to  Oregon  by 
the  way  of  Fort  Hall.  We  crossed  Webber 
Creek  and  Bear  River.  About  half  way  be- 
tween Webber  Creek  and  Bear  River  we  passed 
a  boiling  sulphur  spring.  The  Indians  and 
Mormons  used  this  water  as  a  panacea  for  all 
kinds  of  disease.  There  is  also  another  spring 
near  by  that  is  icy  cold. 

ROBBERS    GLEN. 

July  30. — We  passed  through  Robbers  Glen, 
one  of  the  wildest  and  most  desolate  glens  on 
the  route. 


Io6  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    JX     49. 

Occasionally  the  old  Fremont  trail  could 
be  seen.  The  scenery  was  constantly  chang- 
ing. Sometimes  we  were  climbing  along  the 
steep  hillside  among  the  boulders  and  sharp, 
jagged  rocks;  again  we  would  plunge  into  the 
bottom  of  some  deep  canyon,  making  our  way 
along  the  rocky  bed. 

Just  at  dusk  we  camped  in  this  wild  and 
romantic  place,  the  Robbers  Glen.  The  name, 
the  wildness  of  the  place,  its  remoteness  from 
human  habitation,  the  rocky  hill  rising  around 
us,  the  darkness  of  the  night  as  it  closed  in 
upon  us,  and  the  solemn  silence  that  pervaded, 
made  the  stoutest  heart  shudder.  This  glen 
lies  between  Ikar  River  and  Castle  Rock. 

This  was  the  most  God-forsaken  country 
we  had  seen.  Alkali  everywhere.  The  water 
is  warm  and  poor.  Feed  is  scarce.  A  desolate 
place  it  is.  To-night  there  is  not  a  cheerful 
man  in  the  train.  Every  gun  is  loaded.  Extra 
men  are  put  on  guard,  and  but  few  retire. 

Once  during  the  night  a  false  alarm  was 
given,  and  one  hundred  and  eighty  men  were 
ready  for  a  conflict. 

As  the  shades  of  night  disappear  and  the 
rays  of  the  morning  sun  light  up  the  solitary 
place,  the  train  rolls  out  of  camp. 

Many  depredations  were  committed  on  the 
emigrants  by  the  Mormons  and  Indians  in  this 
vicinity.     In   1850  many   emigrants    were    shot 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN      49.  IO7 

down  simply  because  tliey  refused  to  give  up 
their  cattle  and  horses. 

From  Robbers  Glen  our  route  lay  northwest 
to  Castle  Rock.  Here  we  fail  to  find  words 
to  describe  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  these 
rocks.  Red,  white,  and  gray  granite  piled 
upon  each  other  until  they  formed  great  castles 
in  the  air,  from  which  they  take  their  name. 

Fifty  miles  from  Castle  Rock  a  trail  led 
northwest  to  Fort  Hall  on  the  old  Oregon 
trail,  while  our  trail  led  southwest  to  Goose 
Creek.  The  scenery  down  this  creek  was  wild 
and  romantic.  The  red  granite  rises  perpen- 
dicular on  either  side  six  to  seven  hundred  feet 
high. 

James  Tong,  ot  Illinois,  and  George  Price, 
of  Virginia,  two  young  men,  resolved  to  stand 
upon  the  summit  of  the  cliffs.  Step  by  step 
they  ascended  the  cliffs.  The  men  below 
looked  like  six-year-old  boys.  Just  as  they 
reached  the  summit,  they  halted  for  a  moment, 
dazed  with  the  surprise  at  the  depth  below. 
They  took  a  hurried  view  of  the  scene,  and 
moved  back  from  the  precipice.  For  miles 
they  walked  along  on  this  natural  granite  wall, 
until  the  sun  was  sinking  low  in  the  west, 
when  they  became  anxious  to  find  a  place  where 
they  could  descend ;  but  to  their  horroi"  the 
precipice  grew  more  jDcrpendicular  and  the 
descent  more  dangerous.     Suffice  to  say  it  was 


I08  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    ^49. 

long    after    dark    when    they    reached    camp. 
Never  did  bacon  and  beans  taste  sweeter. 

THE    WEDDING. 

It  was  here  at  this  camp  on  Goose  Creek, 
in  1853,  the  first  wedding  was  celebrated  on 
the  plains.     The  story  is  as  follows : — 

The  hardships,  the  toil,  and  privations  en- 
dured while  crossing  the  plains  in  those  early 
days  were  no  drawback  to  love-making,  as  the 
sequel  of  this  story  proves. 

April  20,  1853,  Isaac  Decker,  of  Viraqua, 
Bodox  County,  Wisconsin,  left  home  with  an 
ox  team  for  Council  Bluffs,  on  the  Missouri 
River.  At  the  same  time  a  wagon  left  Bee- 
town,  Grant  County,  Wisconsin,  for  California. 
With  this  wagon  was  a  tall,  handsome  young 
lady  of  twenty.  Miss  Lavina  Pond.  In  making 
up  the  train  at  Council  Bluffs,  the  Decker  and 
Pond  wagons  joined  the  same  train.  Isaac 
Decker  and  Miss  Pond  soon  became  intimate 
friends,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  when 
Miss  Pond  strolled  on  before,  or  lagged  be- 
hind, Ike,  as  he  was  familiarly  called,  was 
always  at  her  side,  to  protect  her  from  the 
Indians  (as  he  said).  Days,  weeks,  and 
months  passed,  and  when  the  train  had  reached 
Goose  Creek,  the  Indians  were  hostile  and  on 
the  war-path.  Fortunately  they  did  not  catch 
Miss  Pond,  but  Ike  did.  and  there  was  rumor 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  IO9 

of   a    wedding   in    the   train,    Indians    or    no 
Indians. 

As  this  was  the  first  marriage  ever  cele- 
brated on  the  plains,  the  emigrants  deter- 
mined to  honor  the  event  with  all  the  gaiety 
possible.  To  prepare  for  the  wedding,  the 
train  must  camp  two  days.  What  a  hustling 
of  the  old  ladies  to  prepare  the  wedding  feast ! 
for  every  emigrant  camped  within  reach  was 
invited. 

August  4  was  the  sweetest  morning  of  the 
whole  journey  across  the  plains.  The  sun 
shone  with  gentle  radiance,  and  the  motion- 
less air  was  fragrant  with  the  odor  of  sweet 
flowers.  Men.  women,  and  children,  to  the 
number  of  over  two  hundred,  gathered  around 
the  camp  to  witness  the  ceremony. 

The  bride  wore  a  dress  of  dark  brown,  fig- 
ured nun's-veiling ;  her  hair  was  combed  over 
her  head  in  coquettish  curls,  and  she  looked 
as  sweet  as  only  a  young  bride  can.  On  the 
bank  of  the  creek,  beneath  a  canopy  of  willows 
and  wild  grape  vines,  the  ceremony  took  place 
that  made  the  twain  one  flesh.  J.  M.  Robin- 
son, justice  of  the  peace,  in  a  short,  simple 
service,  pronounced  the  young  pioneers  man 
and  wife,  while  the  birds  in  the  willows  sang 
their  sweet  songs.  Many  of  the  gentlemen 
claimed  the  privilege  of  saluting  the  bride, 
while  not  a  few  ladies  kissed  the  groom. 


no  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

The  old,  greasy  wagon  sheets  were  spread 
out  on  the  ground  for  tablecloths,  and  the 
wedding  dinner  was  served  upon  them.  The 
menu  was  as  follows :  Bread,  beans,  roast  duck, 
cake,  and  custard  pie.  The  boys  had  found 
a  duck's  nest  with  fourteen  eggs,  and  killed 
the  duck;  some  of  the  cows  gave  milk,  hence 
the  custard  pies. 

Gathered  around  the  wagon  sheets  were' over 
forty  guests,  members  of  the  newly-wedded 
couple's  own  train,  seated  on  the  ground,  while 
the  bride  and  groom  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  on  an  ox-yoke.  Pots  and  dishes  out  of 
the  way,  the  dance  commenced,  and  lasted  till 
the  small  hours  of  the  morning. 

Next  morning  six  big  Indians  came  to  the 
camp.  Ike  looked  savage,  reached  for  his  gun, 
and  got  between  the  Indians  and  his  bride. 
A  strange  sensation  tingled  all  over  her  at 
that  moment,  and  she  shuddered  as  if  with 
sudden  cold.  The  chief  soon  disi^elled  her 
fears,  for  in  broken  English  he  congratulated 
them  on  their  big  war-dance.  The  truth  is, 
every  Indian  for  five  miles  around  had  heard 
the  racket,  and  could  think  of  nothing  but  a 
w^ar-dance.  It  struck  terror  to  the  redskins, 
and  they  troubled  the  train  no  more. 

Mr.  Decker  and  his  bride  arrived  in  Cali- 
fornia, and  settled  in  Vaca  V^alley.  where  he 
died  in  1864.     Mrs.  Decker  is  living  in  Dia- 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  Ill 

mond,  Alameda  County.  Mrs.  Pond,  mother 
of  Mrs.  Decker,  is  the  only  lady  who  has  the 
credit  of  walking  the  entire  distance,  except  a 
few  miles,  from  the  Missouri  River  to  Rag- 
town,  on  the  Carson  River,  fifteen  hundred 
miles.  She  had  a  large  family  of  eight  chil- 
dren; the  wagon  was  heavy  and  overloaded. 
The  cattle  soon  became  lame  and  poor,  and 
Mrs.  Pond  resolved  to  walk,  that  the  children 
might  ride.  A  mother's  love  sustained  her 
as  she  climbed  the  steep  mountainside  and 
walked  through  the  burning  sand  and  across 
the  desert,  that  her  children  might  not  perish 
on  the  plains.  She  met  her  husband,  who  had 
gone  to  California  in  '50,  at  Ragtown,  on 
Carson  River.  They  arrived  in  California 
after  six  months^  journey,  and  settled  in  Vaca 
Valley,  wdiere  they  lived  mau}^  happy  years. 
Both  have  paid  the  debt  of  nature  years  ago. 

THE  GOOD  INDIANS. 

The  reader  must  not  think  that  all  the  In- 
dian tribes  the  emigrants  of  '49-' 50  encoun-, 
tered  were  hostile  and  on  the  war-path.  On 
the  contrary,  many  of  them  were  harmless, 
though  natural-born  thieves.  The  squaws 
were  at  every  camp  begging  for  bread.  The 
old  bucks  wanted  tobacco  and  whisky,  and  at 
the  same  time  would  steal  everything  they 
could  carry  off. 


THE    GOOD    INDIAN. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  II3 

Some  of  them  were  kind  and  hospitable, 
directing  the  emigrants  to  water  and  feed  for 
their  stock,  while  they  divided  their  sumac, 
a  kind  of  flour  made  of  acorns,  gromid  in  a 
stone  mortar  by  the  squaws.  They  were  also 
very  liberal  with  their  dried  jerk,  or  buffalo 
meat.  Some  of  the  men  were  well  dressed  in 
buckskin  and  mounted  on  fine  Indian  ponies. 
It  was  a  common  thing  to  see  them  have  fine 
mules  and  horses  they  had  stolen  from  the 
emigrants.  They  would  not  sell  them  at  any 
price. 

Some  of  the  tribes  were  at  war  with  each 
other,  and  this  made  them  more  friendly  with 
the  emigrants. 

From  Goose  Creek  our  trail  led  through  hills 
of  sand,  covered  with  sage-brush  and  grease- 
wood,  to  the  headwaters  of  the  Humboldt 
River. 

For  days  not  a  living  thing  could  be  seen, 
not  even  a  lizzard  or  horned  toad.  This  is  the 
most  desolate  region  we  have  seen. 

The  hills  were  so  bare  and  feed  so  scarce 
that  thousands  of  cattle  and  horses  gave  out 
and  starved  to  death.  Hence  wagons,  cloth- 
ing, and  provisions  must  be  left  behind. 

Some  packed  provisions  on  horses  and  cat- 
tle and  led  them.  Others  made  carts,  while 
some  lost  all  their  stock  and  must  pack  their 
provisions   on   their  back,   and,   with   rifle   in 


114  CKOSSiXG    THE    PLAINS    IN      49. 

hand,  journey  on,  leaving  everything  else 
behind. 

The  road  was  lined  with  men  on  half  rations, 
while  some  were  starving  to  death. 

The  writer  saw  twenty  men  in  one  day 
begging  for  something  to  eat. 

It  w^ould  be  a  great  oversight  to  fail  to  re- 
cord an  incident  that  took  place  here. 

A  man  from  Salt  Lake  overtook  us  with 
twenty-five  head  of  fat  cattle.  The  starving 
emigrants  offered  him  two  hundred  dollars  for 
one  ox.  The  Shylock  refused  to  sell  at  any 
price. 

The  next  morning  twenty-five  starving  men. 
with  rifles  in  hand,  walked  into  his  little  herd 
and  killed  the  best  ox  they  could  find.  (The 
author  ate  a  piece  of  it.)  Then  the  Shylock 
offered  to  take  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
ox,  but  it  was  too  late.  He  had  played  the 
wrong  card. 

July  25. — Not  a  cloud  to  be  seen.  The  heat 
is  intense.  To-day  we  crossed  the  northeastern 
tributary  of  the  Humboldt  River.  Our  route 
now  lies  down  the  Humboldt,  three  hundred 
miles  to  the  sink. 

July  30.— Arrived  at  Thousand  Spring  Val- 
ley. Here  in  this  plateau  were  many  bottom- 
less wells,  the  water  flowing  out  over  the  land, 
forming  a  beautiful  meadow,  a  real  oasis  in 


or  THP 


^^ 


or 


Mr.  J.  N.  B.  Wyatt 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  II5 

this  barren  and  sterile  land.     Here  we  camped 
three  days  to  rest  our  cattle. 

It  seems  strange,  but  it  is  a  fact,,  for  hun- 
dreds of  miles  around  this  beautiful  meadow 
it  is  one  vast  desert  of  sand-hills,  covered  vvith 
sage-brush  and  grease-wood. 

THE    MAN    THAT    ATE    THE    BACON    RIND. 

August  I. — We  camped  in  Hungry  Hollow. 
It  was  near  this  camp,  in  1850,  that  J.  N.  B. 
Wyatt  ate  the  bacon  rind. 

There  are  but  few  men  who  crossed  the 
plains  who  relate  a  sadder  experience  than  Mr. 
Wyatt.  The  story,  as  told  the  writer  by  Mr.' 
Wyatt,  is  as  follows : — 

On  May  2,  1850,  when  in  his  nineteenth 
year,  he  left  his  father's  home  in  Grundy 
County,  Missouri,  with  an  ox  team,  and  joined 
a  large  train  bound  for  the  gold  fields  of  Cali- 
fornia. 

He  crossed  the  Missouri  River  at  St.  Joseph, 
and  took  the  trail  leading  up  the  south  side 
of  Platte  River  to  the  Rockies.  Across  the 
swollen  streams,  through  storms  of  thunder 
and  lightning,  they  pressed  on.  Days  and 
weeks  passed ;  nothing  worthy  of  note  trans- 
pired, until  one  morning,  when  they  were 
camped  on  Platte  River,  a  strange  man  on 
horseback,  without  hat  or  boots,  rode  into 
camp,   almost  breathless,   with  several  Indian 


Il6  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

arrows  sticking  in  his  back.  A  hostile  Indian 
band  had  attacked  his  train,  and  he  alone  had 
escaped.  He  was  given  such  relief  as  the  camp 
afforded,  and  later  started  for  Fort  Laramie 
for  aid. 

June  10  they  had  camped  for  the  day.  The 
bright  blue  sky  above,  the  broad,  green  prairie 
spread  out  before  them  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see.  The  faithful  oxen,  resting  in  the  cool 
shade,  puffing  and  chewing  their  cud.  The 
men  were  happy  and  gay.  But,  alas,  how  soon 
a  change  came  over  them !  The  cholera  made 
its  appearance  in  the  train,  and  many  fell  vic- 
tims to  the  dread  disease.  Surrounded  on 
every  side  by  the  cholera-afflicted  emigrants, 
some  became  panic-stricken,  and  five  wagons 
left  the  train. 

The  poor  brutes  were  urged  along  at  the 
rate  of  twenty-five  to  thirty  miles  per  day,  and 
the  day's  journey  often  extended  far  into  the 
night,  in  the  hopes  of  out-traveling  the  dreaded 
scourge.  Many  of  the  men,  old  and  young, 
had  been  buried  in  lonely  graves.  Not  until 
they  had  reached  the  mountains,  and  found 
cool,  pure  water,  did  the  cholera  disappear. 

After  enduring  many  hardships,  they  reached 
the  Humboldt  River.  Cattle  w^ere  lame,  poor, 
and  weak,  wagons  empty,  and  starvation 
staring  them  in  the  face.  Thousands  of 
miles  from  civilization,  and  not  a  morsel  of 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  II7 

food  in  the  wagons  except  a  few  pounds  of 
dried  apples  and  a  little  jerked  meat.  The 
men  and  cattle  were  reduced  to  skin  and  bone, 
and  one  man  was  sick  in  the  wagon.  Had 
they  killed  an  ox,  the  animals  were  so  poor 
they  would  have  had  nothing  to  eat  but  his 
hide. 

For  fourteen  days  they  lived  on  dried  ap- 
ples and  a  small  ration  of  jerked  meat.  Dur- 
ing these  days  of  suffering  Mr.  Wyatt  saw  a 
man  throwing  a  bacon  rind  away.  He  grabbed 
it  up  like  a  hawk  would  a  young  chicken ;  he 
did  not  wait  to  cook  it,  either,  but,  like  a  starv- 
ing wolf,  he  gnawed  the  meat  off  and  then  ate 
the  rind. 

On  another  occasion  he  visited  a  camp  and 
wanted  to  buy  something  for  a  sick  man  to  eat. 
A  tall,  raw-boned  Shylock,  in  the  form  of  a 
white  woman,  offered  to  sell  on^  pound  of  flour 
for  two  dollars;  he  refused  to  pay,  and  chose 
hunger  rather  than  to  be  robbed  when  they 
were  starving. 

In  another  camp  he  found  an  angel,  in  the 
form  of  a  good  old  motherly  soul,  who  gave 
him  all  he  could  eat,  besides  a  generous  dona- 
tion to  take  to  the  camp. 

About  this  time  they  were  twice  surrounded 
by  Indians,  who  climbed  into  the  wagons  and 
threw  out  all  the  bedding  and  clothes.  They 
found  no  provisions,  but  saw  the  men  and  cat- 


Il8  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

tie  were  starving  to  death.  Mr.  Wyatt  divided 
his  dried  apples  with  them,  and  they  left.  Soon 
after  this  they  came  to  a  trading  post,  where 
they  bought  flour  and  bacon  at  one  dollar  per 
pound.  It  has  been  fifty-two  years  since  that 
time,  still  it  makes  the  old  pioneer  hungry  to 
think  of  the  day  he  ate  the  bacon  rind. 

On  September  15  Mr.  Wyatt  arrived  at 
Coloma,  the  end  of  his  journey,  where  gold 
was  first  discovered  in  1848.  Here  he  met  his 
uncle,  Thomas  Thompson,  who  was  the  first 
Christian  minister  ever  preached  on  the  coast. 

Mr.  Wyatt  witnessed  the  first  baptism  in 
California  by  a  Christian  minister,  and  he  him- 
self was  the  second  one  baptized.  He  is  hale 
and  hearty,  though  in  his  seventy-first  year, 
and  lives  in  Winters. 

DOWN   THE   HUMBOLDT. 

August  3. — The  last  three  days  w^e  have 
been  traveling  through  sand-hills  covered  with 
sage-brush.  Feed  is  scarce,  water  poor  and 
alkali.  On  either  side  of  the  road  dead  horses 
and  oxen  lie  strewn  everywhere.  In  this  sterile 
desert  one  seldom  meets  with  anything  that  has 
life,  except  an  Indian.  But  to-day  we  saw  four 
sage-hens,  nuich  like  the  prairie  hens  of  the 
West,  excei)t  the  color,  which  was  much  like 
the  sand-hills  among  which  they  live. 

August  5. — We  arrived  at  Mormon  Station. 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  II9 

three  hnndred  miles  from  Salt  Lake.  Here  we 
found  a  few  provisions  for  sale.  Flour  and 
bacon,  two  dollars  per  pound.  Whisky,  fifty 
cents  per  drink.  Two  emigrants  got  drunk 
and  quarreled.  Jim  Ealy  shot  and  killed 
Frank  Sheppard.  His  brains  were  scattered 
over  the  ground  when  we  arrived  at  the  station. 
Both  men  were  from  Ohio. 

From  Mormon  Station  all  along  down  the 
HumboMt  the  Indians  were  hostile  and  on  the 
war-path.  The  mountains  being  in  close  prox- 
imity, and  the  river  bank  lined  with  willows, 
made  it  a  favorable  place  for  the  Indians  to 
attack  and  annoy  the  emigrants. 

GRAVELLY   FORD. 

But  few,  if  any,  of  the  emigrants  of  '49-' 50 
can  read  of  this  ill-fated  crossing  with  out  call- 
ing to  mind  some  depredation  done  by  the 
savages  in  this  vicinity.  Many  times  the  blood 
of  the  emigrants,  as  well  as  that  of  the  Indians, 
mingled  with  the  waters  of  the  Humboldt,  as  it 
flowed  on  its  course. 

It  was  near  this  ford  in  1852  that  the  In- 
dians massacred  a  whole  train  of  emigrants, 
men  and  wonien,  carrying  off  six  children,  two 
boys  and  four  girls. 

In  1853  the  writer  visited  the  graves  of  the 
unfortunate  emigrants.  The  wagons  had  all 
been  hauled  away  by  the  traders. 


I20  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

THE  HOPPER  TRAIN. 

It  was  here  on  the  Humboldt,  near  Gravelly 
Ford,  in  1856,  that  the  Indians  attacked  the 
Hopper  train,  from  Johnson  County,  Mis- 
souri, which  consisted  of  twelve  wagons, 
ninety-six  head  of  work  oxen,  also  ten  head  of 
milk  cows,  and  twenty-five  saddle  horses. 
There  were  thirty  men,  twelve  women,  and 
ten  children. 

On  May  8  they  left  their  old  homes  and  took 
the  road  for  California,  the  land  of  sunshine 
and  flowers. 

Their  route  lay  up  the  west  side  of  the  Mis- 
souri River,  thence  over  the  broad  prairie  and 
across  the  Kansas  River,  over  the  alkali  plains 
to  Fort  Kearney,  then  up  the  south  side  of  the 
Platte  River. 

April  5  they  killed  their  first  buffalo,  about 
one-half  mile  from  camp.  Several  of  the 
w^omen  and  children  went  out  and  saw  it. 
The  animal  was  dressed  and  brought  to  camp, 
and  that  night  the  meat  was  jerked. 

Over  the  broad  prairie  covered  with  stunted 
grass  they  pushed  on,  following  the  emigrant 
trail  up  the  south  side  of  Platte  River  to  Ash 
Hollow.  Here  they  crossed  the  Platte  and 
took  the  old  Freemont  trail  for  the  gold  fields. 

There  was  no  train  that  crossed  the  plains 
in  1856  better  equipped  than  the  Hopper  train. 
Every  man  had  a  gun,  and  many  of  them  were 


'       CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  121 

the  best  of  marksmen.  Hence  they  killed 
many  deer  and  buffalo,  and  the  train  was  well 
supplied  with  fresh  meat. 

After  many  days  of  delay  and  hardships  the 
train  reached  the  Humboldt  River. 

August  I  had  been  a  long  and  sultry  day. 
The  train  had  been  traveling  down  the  river. 
The  banks  were  lined  with  willows.  For  miles 
they  had  seen  Indians  lurking  in  the  brush. 

Just  as  the  sun  was  setting  the  train  drove 
into  camp.  All  hands  were  busy  unhitching 
the  cattle,  when  the  redskins  fired  on  the  train, 
and  shot  William  Hopper  through  the  thigh 
and  Harvey  Pleasants  in  the  groin.  The  lit- 
tle band  of  pioneers  turned  their  old  Kentucky 
rifles  on  the  redskins,  and  they  fled,  going 
direct  to  Dr.  Matthews'  train  that  was  camped 
near  by,  which  was  a  horse  and  mule  train. 
A  pitched  battle  ensued,  in  which  Dr.  Matthews 
killed  one  Indian.  .  At  this  the  Indians  fled, 
carrying  the  dead  to  the  mountains.  That 
night  the  air  was  filled  with  their  wild  and 
savage  yells.  In  plain  view  the  Indians  piled 
brush  and  wood  on  the  body  of  their  dead 
comrade  and  burned  it. 

Next  morning  over  fifty  Indians,  mounted 
on  ponies,  came  swooping  down  from  the 
mountains  and  attacked  the  Matthews  train. 
Twenty  men,  with  rifles,  went  from  the  Hop- 
per train  to  their  relief,  and  the  Indians  fled, 
though  they  succeeded  in  stampeding  the  stock, 


122  C'ROSSIXC    THI'     IT.ATXS    IX      49. 

and  drove  off  fifteen  head  of  mules  and  horses. 

W.  J.  Pleasants,  who  crossed  the  plains  in 
'49  with  his  father  and  brother  Edward, 
headed  a  company  of  fifteen  men,  all  well 
armed  and  mounted  on  good  horses,  and  fol- 
lowed the  lleeing  Indians  for  fifteen  miles  over 
sand-hills  and  through  the  sage-brush,  but 
failed  to  overtake  them.  The  Indians  were 
well  mounted  on  Indian  ponies,  and  armed 
with   rifles,   bows    and  arrows. 

After  eight  days  of  delay,  the  Hopper  train 
was  able  to  move  the  young  men  w^ho  were 
wounded,  and  they  soon  recovered.  Harvey 
Pleasants  arrived  in  California,  and  lived  with 
his  father  in  Pleasants  Valley,  where  he  died 
August  I,  1866,  just  ten  years  to  a  day  from 
the  time  he  was  wounded. 

W.  J.  Pleasants  lives  in  Pleasants  Valley, 
where  he  has  resided  for  more  than  fifty-three 
3^ears.  He  still  has  the  leather  shot  pouch  and 
the  old  Kentucky  rifles  his  father  and  he 
brought  over  in  '49.  He  also  has  the  bullet 
his    brother    Harvey    was    w^ounded    with    in 

1856. 

He  has  a  beautiful  and  comfortable  home 
in  the  heart  of  Pleasants  Valley.  (This  valley 
was  named  after  his  father  by  the  writer.) 

THE    LONG    SWIM. 

There  were  many  little  incidents  that  took 
place  on   the  long  journey  of  two  thousand 


V 


Uti^^  or 


CAl 


W.  J.  Pleasants 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  I23 

miles,  of  which  the  following  is  one  the  writer 
will  never  forget : — 

We  were  camped  on  the  Humboldt  River, 
and  the  morning  was  hot  and  sultry.  As  the 
sun  rose  above  the  mountain  peaks,  the  train 
pulled  out  of  camp.  As  it  started,  six  young 
men, — Ike  and  Sam  Harris,  Green  Teas, 
Cicero  Dowd,  Silvester  Jones,  and  the  writer, 
— put  their  clothes  in  the  wagon  and  took  to 
the  water.  The  river  was  crooked,  and  the 
road  led  from  bend  to  bend  in  the  river.  This 
made  many  cut-offs.  We  did  not  notice  that 
the  train  w^as  leaving  the  river,  and  before  we 
knew  it,  the  wagons  w^ere  out  of  sight. 

On  and  on,  down  the  river  we  went.  At 
times  we  left  the  water  and  ran  along  on  the 
hot  sand  and  gravel,  but  soon  our  fun  began 
to  grow  serious.  The  train  had  taken  a  cut- 
off, and  left  the  river.  The  heat  was  intense. 
The  sun  was  almost  blistering  our  backs, 
which  were  now  as  red  as  lobsters. 

It  was  ten  o'clock,  and  no  train  could  be 
seen.  We  left  the  water  and  heeled  it  dow^n  the 
river  through  the  willows,  like  so  many  wild 
men.  One  o'clock,  and  the  train  came  in  sight, 
but  many  miles  away.  In  the  willows  we 
came  upon  a  band  of  friendly  Indians,  who 
gave  us  old  moccasins  to  put  on  our  feet.  At 
two  o'clock,  when  the  train  came  back  to  the 
ri\'er  and  camped,  we  were  still  two  miles 
away.      Two   of  our   company   on   horseback 


124  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

brought  us  our  clothes.  Our  backs  were  so 
bhstered  we  could  scarcely  wear  our  shirts. 
At  six  o'clock  we  were  only  twelve  hours 
older,  but  many  years  wiser.  The  train  had 
traveled  only  twelve  miles,  while  we  had  trav- 
eled many  more. 

THE    FIRST   GOLD   DUST. 

August  10. — To-day  wx  met  six  Mormons 
returning  from  California.  The  report  they 
gave  of  the  gold  mines,  and  the  gold  dust  they 
showed  us,  set  every  man  wild  to  push  on  and 
reach  the  mines. 

This  was  the  first  gold  dust  many  of  us  had 
seen.  Some  of  it  was  coarse,  lumps  as  large 
as  a  man's  thumb. 

We  forgot  the  hardships  we  had  endured, 
and  the  difficulties  yet  to  overcome  before  we 
reached  the  mines. 

The  cattle  were  so  poor  and  weak  we  could 
only  travel  a  few  miles  each  day.  Many  of 
the  emigrants  became  impatient,  took  what 
provisions  they  could  carry,  and  struck  out  on 
foot  for  the  mines.  The  road  was  lined  with 
men  rushing  for  the  gold  fields,  traveling 
almost  night  and  day. 

We  were  then  on  the  Humboldt  River  where 
the  Humboldt  cut-ofif  from  Salt  Lake  in- 
tersected the  old  Freemont  trail,  six  hundred 
miles  from  the  gold  fields. 


Mr.  G.  W.  Seely 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 25 

THE  HERO  OF   1 857. 

The  fame  of  California,  the  wonderland, 
had  spread  far  and  near.  It  was  said  that  far 
beyond  the  rolling  prairies  and  over  the  snow- 
capped mountains  lay  the  rich,  fertile  valleys 
of  the  golden  West,  a  land  of  sunshine,  where 
the'  climate  was  mild  and  salubrious.  There 
the  ever-blooming  flowers  filled  the  air  with 
their  sweet  fragance.  This  garden  of  Eden 
was  open  for  the  hardy  pioneers. 

The  writer  is  indebted  to  G.  W.  Seely  for 
the  following  narrative  : — 

In  1857,  in  company  with  his  brother 
Charles,  wife,  and  three  children;  Flemming 
Brown,  wife,  and  four  children ;  Calib  Etherton 
and  wife;  and  John  Fletcher,  the  hero  of  this 
story,  they  sold  their  comfortable  homes  in 
Jones  County,  Iowa,  and  joined  the  throng 
that  was  en  route  for  the  golden  West.  Little 
did  they  realize  what  was  before  them. 

At  Omaha  they  joined  a  large  train,  and 
with  thousands  of  other  emigrants  took  the 
road  leading  to  the  Pacific  Coast. 

The  train  was  large  and  hard  to  manage. 
Ofttimes  the  wood  and  water  were  scarce,  and 
no  feed  for  the  cattle. 

After  many  wrecks  of  wrangling  and  dis- 
content, Seely  and  eight  other  men,  with  four 
wagons,  pulled  off  and  left  the  train. 

Night  and  day  the  little  band  kept  guard 


126  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

over  the  women  and  children.  Day  by  day 
they  trudged  along  through  the  cloudless  sun- 
shine. After  many  difficulties  and  hardships 
they  reached  Goose  Creek. 

July  28  they  passed  a  camp  where  the  In- 
dians the  night  before  had  killed  one  woman 
and  several  mules  and  horses,  and  had  driven 
the  emigrants  from  the  camp  and  plundered 
the  wagons.  They  had  ripped  open  the 
feather  beds  to  get  the  ticking,  and  the  feathers 
were  scattered  all  over  the  ground  for  more 
than  half  a  mile  away. 

The  day  had  been  a  long,  hot  one.  The  sun 
was  sinking  to  rest  in  a  cloudless  sky.  The 
little  band  of  pioneers  had  camped,  and  were 
preparing  their  evening  meal,  w'hen  a  band  of 
Indians,  mounted  on  mules  and  horses,  armed 
with  rifles,  bows  and  arrows,  attacked  the  little 
train.  The  balls  and  arrow^s  flew  thick  and 
fast.  Many  of  them  lodged  in  the  w^agons, 
behind  which  the  women  and  children-  were 
taking  refuge. 

The  scene  was  indescribable.  The  women 
and  children  were  screaming  and  crying,  the 
Indians  yelling  and  crowding  onto  the  train, 
when  John  Fletcher  mounted  his  horse,  and 
with  a  double-barreled  shotgun  loaded  with 
buckshot  dashed  in  among  them,  killing  one 
mule  and  one  Indian,  and  wounding  several 
others.  The  Indians  fled,  carrying  their  dead 
comrade    with    them.      Fletcher    returned    to 


Mr.  J.  M.  Robinson 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 27 

camp,  cool  and  deliberate.  Not  a  scratch  had 
he  received,  and  he  had  saved  the  little  band 
of  pioneers. 

They  now  hitched  up  their  cattle  and  made 
tracks  for  a  large  train,  and  remained  with 
them  until  they  reached  the  wonderland. 

Between  starvation  and  the  Indians  stealing 
their  cattle,  they  lost  more  than  half  of  them, 
and  left  one  wagon  on  the  plains. 

Mrs.  Brown  was  taken  sick  on  the  Hum- 
boldt River,  and  died  the  day  they  reached 
their  destination  on  the  McCalama  River. 

George  and  Charles  Seely  settled  near 
Dixon.  In  after  years  they  moved  to  San 
Jose,  where  they  have  pleasant  and  beautiful 
homes. 

THE    BIG    INDIAN. 

July  10,  1853,  was  a  beautiful  morning. 
The  sun  shown  1)right  and  warm,  and  the  air 
w^as  fragrant  with  wild  flowers.  It  was  one 
of  those  beautiful  mornings  so  often  to  be 
found  in  tlie  wilderness. 

No  sound  of  the  woodman's  ax,  no  sign  of 
life  or  civilization.  It  was  the  home  of  the 
red  man,  the  savages  of  the  forest.  Here  on 
the  bank  of  a  pure  mountain  stream  stood  a 
lonely  pioneer  wagon,  and  in  it  were  Robert 
Dean  and  J.  ^l.  Robinson  and  wife. 

They  had  camped  for  the  night,  and  when 
morning  dawned,  not  an  ox  could  be  found. 


128  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

•        I    :  ^       .    ,        : 

Robinson  and  Dean  left  Mrs.  Robinson  at 
camp  and  went  in  search  of  the  cattle.  Mrs. 
Robinson,  busy  with  camp  work,  did  not  no- 
tice a  band  of  sixty  Indians  creeping  upon  her. 
But,  looking  up  suddenly,  she  saw  a  band  of 
the  largest  Indians  in  the  world  within  a  few 
yards  of  her. 

The  old  chief  was  a  giant,  at  least  seven 
feet  high,  or  so  it  seemed  to  her.  His  head 
was  decked  with  eagle  feathers,  and  war  paint 
on  his  face.  With  tomahawk  and  scalping- 
knife  in  hand,  he  walked  up  to  her  and  mo- 
tioned for  her  to  get  upon  the  wagon  tongue 
and  stand  there.  She  obeyed  orders.  The 
Indians  walked  around  the  wagon  and  tent, 
saw  no  men,  and  then  helped  themselves  to 
what  they  wanted,  taking  every  pound  of  bread 
and  sugar  they  could  find,  and  then  left. 

When  Robinson  and  Dean  returned,  the  In- 
dians were  fleeing  in  the  distance;  Mrs.  Rob- 
inson was  still  standing  on  the  wagon  tongue. 
How  long  she  had  been  there  she  could  not 
tell. 

It  has  been  forty-eight  years  since  that  day, 
but  it  still  makes  Mrs.  Robinson  shudder  to 
think  of  it. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robinson  arrived  in  California 
after  six  months'  journey,  and  settled  in  Vaca 
Valley,  where  Mr.  Robinson  died  in  1898. 
Mrs.  Robinson,  still  hale  and  hearty,  lives  on 
the  old  homestead. 


Of 

CAi  ir' 


Mrs.  J.  M.  Robinson 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 29 

SINK  OF   THE    HUMBOLDT. 

August  23. — We  arrive  at  the  sink  of  the 
river.  It  empties  out  on  the  desert,  forming 
a  great  marsh  or  meadow  of  coarse  grass,  that 
covers  more  than  a  thousand  acres.  In  many 
places  the  grass  was  higher  than  a  man's  head. 

There  were  also  many  natural  wells  all  over 
the  marsh.  Charles  Durham,  while  hunting 
ducks,  fell  into  one  of  them  and  lost  his  gun. 
Some  of  the  wells  had  no  bottom  to  them. 

What  a  contrast  between  this  beautiful 
meadow  of  waving  grass  and  the  sand-hills 
covered  with  sage-brush,  over,  which  we  have 
been  traveling  for  nearly  a  month. 

Here  we  camped  for  three  days  to  do  our 
washing  and  let  the  cattle  rest.  While  here 
we  had  a  feast.  A  deer,  pursued  by  a  panther, 
or  mountain  lion,  ran  almost  into  our  camp. 
Long  before  he  caught  it,  we  could  hear  the 
deer  bleating  as  it  ran  for  the  bright  camp-fire. 
When  within  a  few  rods  of  the  camp,  the 
panther  caught  it,  and  set  up  an  unearthly 
growl,  that  sent  a  chill  through  every  man. 
He  ate  the  head  and  neck,  and  then  gathered 
grass  and  leaves  and  covered  the  body  up. 
The  next  morning  we  got  the  deer,  and  it  was 
divided  around  the  camp. 

Before  leaving  the  sink,  every  keg,  jug,  and 
bottle,  in  fact,  everything,  was  filled  with  good, 
cold  water.     This  we  got  by  letting  a  jug  down 


130  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

deep  into  the  wells,  where  the  water  was  cool 
and  good. 

From  the  sink  two  trails  led  to  the  gold 
fields,  one  across  the  desert  sixtv-five  miles 
northwest  to  Lassen  River,  the  other  south- 
west across  the  desert  forty-five  miles  to  Car- 
son River.     Onr  train  took  the  latter  trail. 

THE   LONE   GRAVE. 

In  1853,  among  the  many  thousands  that 
sought  a  home  on  the  Pacific  Coast  was  Will- 
iam Snow,  wife,  and  one  child,  Robert,  five 
years  old.  They  lived  in  Charleston,  Cole 
County,  Illinois.  Snow's  health  having  failed 
him,  and  hearing  of  the  salubrious  climate  in 
California,  so  helpful  to  promoting  health,  he 
resolved  to  cross  the  continent,  in  hope  of  gain- 
ing his  failing  strength. 

His  outfit  consisted  of  one  yoke  of  oxen, 
also  one  yoke  of  cows,  and  a  light  emigrant 
wagon,  into  which  he  piled  bedding,  clothing, 
and  provisions,  and,  with  Mrs.  Snow  and  child, 
on  April  21  he  left  for  the  land  of  sunshine. 

The  out-door  exercise,  the  change  of  scenery 
and  diet  and  water  all  had  a  beneficial  effect, 
and  it  renewed  his  strength  and  gave  a  buoy- 
ancy that  made  the  hardships  of  camp  life 
seem  light.  They  joined  a  large  train,  crossed 
the  Missouri  River,  and  took  the  trail  for  the 
new    Eldorado.     With    hope    and    joy    Mrs. 


CROSSING   THE    PLAI.NS    IX     49.  13I 

Snow  performed  her  daily  task,  picking  up 
wood,  bringing  water,  making  fire,  and  prepar- 
ing the  meals,  while  Snow  looked  after  the 
cattle.  They  had  reached  the  barren,  sandy 
plain.  How  slowly  the  train  moved  on  day 
after  day!  The  weary  cattle  dragged  their 
heavy  burden  along.  The  feed  was  poor  and 
scarce,  and  the  train  separated.  Many  of  the 
cattle  were  giving  out,  and  one  of  Snow's 
cows  had  died.  And  to  lighten  up  the  load, 
they  threw^  away  many  things,  while  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Snow  walked.  Pale  and  careworn.  Snow 
could  no  longer  do  his  share  of  camp  work. 
The  toil  and  hardships  of  the  journey  were  too 
much  for  him;  the  road  was  steep  and  rocky, 
and  he  could  no  longer  walk.  Mrs.  Snow, 
with  a  mother's  love  and  a  wife's  devotion, 
took  the  whip  and  all  day  walked  and  drove 
the  team.  How  she  longed  to  reach  the  Sierra 
Mountains,  hoping  that  the  pure  mountain  air 
and  the  gentle  sea  breeze  that  fanned  the  sweet 
pine  boughs  would  restore  the  color  to  her 
husband's  faded  cheeks.  But,  alas,  she  was 
doomed  to  disappointment.  Snow's  health 
paled  from  day  to  day,  and  he  remained  in  the 
wagon  with  his  little  boy,  while  his  devoted 
wife,  with  rifle  in  hand,  went  on  duty  to  guard 
the  cattle  at  night.  It  seemed  that  her  troubles 
and  trials  had  reached  their  climax.  But  not 
so.  Her  only  child  was  ill;  his  thin  cheeks, 
too,  were  pale,  and  his  eyes,  once  so  bright. 


132  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

had  lost  their  luster.  Days  and  weeks  had 
grown  into  months.  Little  Bob,  as  he  was 
called,  no  longer  ill,  would  trudge  along  by 
his  mother's  side,  and,  when  his  little  legs  could 
carry  him  no  further,  he  would  climb  into  the 
wagon. 

They  had  now  reached  the  Sierra  Moun- 
tains, and  drove  into  camp.  It  was  one  of 
those  quiet,  mellow  evenings  that  seem  to  in- 
tensify the  spirit  of  hope.  So  Mrs.  Snow 
really  felt  that  there  could  not  possibly  be  any 
evil  or  sorrow  lurking  in  the  calm  and  beau- 
tiful hours  as  they  passed  slowly  by.  The 
wild  roses  rustled  in  the  perfume-laden  breeze, 
while  myriads  of  fire-bugs  flitted  through  the 
fast-approaching  darkness.  Long  did  she  sit 
by  the  smouldering  embers  and  listen  to  the 
hard  breathing  of  him  who  was  more  dear  to 
her  than  life.  As  the  night  wore  away,  the 
breathing  grew  weaker  and  weaker,  but  quicker 
and  quicker  grew  the  pulse.  As  the  morning 
light  lit  up  the  deep,  dark  canyons.  Snow's 
spirit  took  its  flight.  They  wrapped  him  in 
his  blanket  and  laid  him  to  rest.  Loving  hands 
strewed  the  lonely  grave  with  wild  flowers, 
and  with  sorrowing  hearts  left  the  sad  camp. 

There  ensued  days  of  sorrow,  toil,  and  hard- 
ships, in  which  no  words  can  do  adequate  jus- 
tice to  the  heroism  and  love  of  Mrs.  Snow. 
After  six  long  months  of  hardship,  toil,  and 
sorrow,  Mrs.  Snow  and  her  little  boy  arrived 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 33 

at  Mud  springs.     Little  Bob  is  now  known 
as  Dr.  Snow,  and  lives  near  Shingle  Springs. 

THE  DESERT. 

August  2']. — We  leave  the  meadow.  At 
4  p.  m.  we  enter  the  desert.  Not  a  spear  of 
grass  to  be  seen.  Sand,  nothing  but  sand, 
everywhere. 

At  7  p.  m.  we  halted  to  eat  lunch  and  let  the 
cattle  rest.  Lunch  over,  the  train  moved  on. 
Darkness  set  in  and  swallowed  up  the  trail. 
I  shall  never  forget  that  night.  There  were 
five  other  trains  crossing  the  desert  the  same 
night. 

There  was  no  moon,  and  the  night  was  dark. 
Bonfires  were  made  all  along  the  trail  out  of 
wagons  and  vehicles  left  by  emigrants  who 
had  gone  on  before.  The  light  of  the  fires  lit 
up  our  pathway  and  revealed  the  awful  loss 
of  stock. 

I  had  become  used  to  the  sight  of  dead  cat- 
tle, but  the  sights  I  saw  that  night  were  beyond 
description. 

As  the  night  wore  away,  the  cattle  began 
to  give  out,  and  we  left  our  first  wagon,  and 
all  the  contents  but  the  provisions.  The  cattle 
were  so  nearly  exhausted  they  scarcely  moved 
along.  Twice  during  the  night  we  gave  them 
all  the  water  we  could  spare. 

Five  wagons  were  left  on  the  desert  by  our 
train. 


134  '    1;m         I     ...       I    111        r\.\\.:r.      Is        .\C). 

As  the  gray  streaks  of  a  new  day  appeared 
in  the  east,  we  came  to  a  traders'  camp,  where 
there  was  water  for  sale  at  one  dollar  per 
gallon. 

A  man  by  the  name  of  Pain,  from  Illinois, 
had  lost  all  his  cattle  but  two.  These  two 
were  drawing  a  cart,  when  one  of  them  gave 
out  for  want  of  water.  The  trader  told  Pain 
one  gallon  of  water  would  save  the  ox,  but 
Pain  flew  into  a  rage,  cursing  him  on  general 
principles,  and  calling  him  all  kinds  of  names. 
The  trader  bore  the  abuse  for  awhile,  then 
drew  his  gun,  and  Pain  cooled  down,  but  re- 
fused to  buy  any  water,  and  left  his  ox  and 
cart. 

We  were  then  fifteen  miles  from  Carson 
River.  When  we  reached  the  river,  we  re- 
mained there  one  day.  That  night  the  trader 
came  in  off  the  desert  with  twenty  head  of 
cattle,  and  Pain's  ox  was  with  them.  He  had 
given  them  water  and  saved  their  lives. 

No  one  can  adequately  describe  the  suffering 
of  both  man  and  beast.  The  scorching  sun 
beamed  down  upon  us  from  a  cloudless  sky. 
Glittering  and  burning  sand  at  our  feet,  in 
which  we  sank  five  to  six  inches  every  step. 

The  loss  of  stock,  horses,  mules,  cattle, 
wagons,  and  vehicles  of  all  kinds,  was  beyond 
computing.  When  a  team  gave  out,  the 
wagon  and  the  stock  that  could  go  no  farther 
were  put  to  one  side  of  the  trail.    There  was  a 


CROsST N( ;    1 1  f  1    I -r , A I  .\s  in    49.  135 

lane  many  miles  long  made  by  the  wagons  left 
on  the  desert.  Just  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see 
the  desert  was  covered  with  dead  horses  and 
cattle,  in  many  places  eight  and  ten  in  a  pile. 

Here  on  the  desert  I  saw  the  wagon  I  helped 
to  build  in  McConnelsville,  Ohio,  for  our  com- 
pany that  left  for  California  March  16,  1849. 
It  w  as  an  immense  wagon.  The  bed  was  made 
after  the  model  of  a  skiff  or  yawl,  with  four 
oars,  for  ferrying  the  men  and  their  provisions 
across  the  streams.  There  it  stood,  buried 
deep  in  the  sand.  The  terrific  winds  that 
swept  down  over  the  great  sandy  plains  had 
buried  the  wheels  up  to  the  hub.  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  wagon.  In  the  hind  end  of 
the  wagon-bed,  or  boat,  was  the  notch  which 
had  been  made  when  they  sawed  out  the  board 
on  which  to  record  Hank  Seamon's  death, 
while  on  the  side  of  the  wagon-bed  were  in- 
scribed with  a  red  keel  stone  the  names  of 
Jerry  Sheppard.  Ambrose  and  William  Palmer, 
August  29,  1849. 

This  was  the  third  time  I  had  seen  trace  of 
the  company  with  which  I  had  left  my  happy 
home,  the  men  who  left  me  sick  at  St.  Joseph. 

Long  before  we  reached  Carson  River,  at 
least  five  miles  away,  the  cattle  scented  the 
water.  Their  eyes  glared  and  rolled.  Their 
tongues  lolled  out,  and  it  was  pitiful  to  see 
them  straining  every  nerve  to  reach  the  water. 
It  was  with  difficulty  we  kept  them  from  rush- 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 37 

ing  down  over  the  bank  into  the  river  with 
the  wagons.  Many  of  them  drank  so  much 
they  could  scarcely  walk,  and  would  not  eat  a 
bite  for  hours  afterward. 

HOW^    HOBSON   RODE   THE   BUFFALO. 

Years  ago,  when  Texas  was  a  wilderness, 
and  the  rendezvous  of  all  classes  of  criminals, 
in  the  dense  forest  stood  a  lonely  log  cabin. 
This  was  the  birthplace  and  early  home  of  our 
hero,  John  Hobson.  Here  he  had  grown  to 
manhood,  with  few  associates  except  his  own 
kith  and  kin,  and  but  few  playmates  except 
the  redskins  of  the  forest. 

Inured  to  hardships  and  dangers,  he  knew 
no  fear.  His  bronco  horse,  lariat,  and  Mex- 
ican spurs  were  his  greatest  pride.  With  lariat 
in  hand,  and  nothing  but  a  hacamore  on  his 
bronco,  he  would  mount  the  wildest  steed. 

In  1849,  when  news  of  the  wonderful  dis- 
covery of  gold  in  California  reached  that  lonely 
log  cabin,  John  ?Iobson  took  the  gold  fever. 
He  at  once  decided  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the 
gold  fields  of  California. 

Arthur  Foster,  Ciras  Williams,  and  himself 
formed  a  ])arty  and  cast  their  lots  together. 
Their  outfit  consisted  of  nine  mustang  horses. 
On  the  backs  of  six  of  the  broncos  were  rude 
pack  saddles  made  from  the  forest.  On  these 
were  piled  the  provisions,  tent,  bedding,  cloth- 
ing, and  cooking  utensils.     Each  horse  carried 


138  CROSSTN( 


•I'i- 


two  hundred  pounds.  Eacli  man  was  mounted 
on  the  swiftest  horse  he  could  find.  With  rifles 
in  hand,  and  Mexican  spurs  dangHng  at  their 
heels,  they  bade  their  loved  ones  adieu,  and 
they  were  off  for  the  new  Eldorado. 

They  soon  fell  in  company  with  other  emi- 
grants, and  formed  a  large  pack  train,  con- 
sisting of  twenty-eight  men  and  sixty-five 
Texas  bronco  horses. 

It  was  March  20;  the  sun  shone  bright  and 
clear,  but  the  ground  was  full  of  frost.  No 
grass  for  the  stock,  tired  waiting  for  it  to 
grow,  they  bought  feed  and  horses  to  pack  it, 
and  took  the  Indian  and  buffalo  trail  leading 
to  the  west. 

No  one  can  adequately  describe  the  priva- 
tions and  hardships  the  pioneer  pack  trains 
endured.  The  weather  was  fine,  the  trail  good, 
and  the  horses  fresh.  Everything  went  lovely 
for  a  while,  but  it  commenced  to  rain  and  hail. 
The  streams  were  full  from  bank  to  bank.  All 
day  long  they  were  wet  to  the  skin,  and  they 
were  compelled  to  camp.  Many  of  the  horses 
were  poor  and  weak,  and  they  had  to  throw 
away  many  things,  among  them  flour,  bacon, 
and  beans.  Their  keg  of  old  rye  whisky  for 
snake  bite  had  been  tapped,  though  it  was  too 
cold  and  wet  for  snakes.  The  gold  fever  be- 
gan to  abate.  The  men  were  cross  and  ill- 
natured.  Every  man  wanted  his  own  way, 
quarreling    and    wrangling    night    and    day. 


139 


They  had  not  traveled  a  month  till  ten  men 
pulled  off  and  left  the  train.  For  a  few  days 
peace  prevailed,  but  soon 'others  became  dis- 
satisfied, and  after  much  quarreling  the  train 
divided  again. 

April  20  they  had  reached  Wolf  Creek,  three 
hundred  miles  from  the  Missouri  River. 
Arthur  Williams'  horse,  while  in  pursuit  of 
an  antelope,  fell,  and  broke  W^illiams'  leg  just 
below  the  knee.  They  were  now  beset  on  every 
side  by  difficulty  and  danger.  Every  morn- 
ing Williams  was  put  on  his  horse,  and  they 
journeyed  on. 

It  was  May  lo,  one  of  those  beautiful  morn- 
ings so  often  to  be  found  near  the  base  of  the 
mountain  range.  They  had  camped  on  Dead 
jNIan's  Hollow.  Here  two  men  had  been  killed 
by  the  Indians,  and  were  buried  in  one  grave. 
At  this  point  the  train  left  the  Platte  River 
and  entered  the  sand-hills.  On  a  low  plateau 
near  the  hills  was  a  herd  of  buffalo  grazing 
on  bunch  grass.  The  sun  had  just  kissed  the 
snow-capped  mountains  in  the  distance  when 
the  train  left  camp.  They  had  scarcely  gotten 
under  way  when  John  Hobson,  Ezra  W^ood- 
ward,  and  six  other  young  men  started  to  kill 
a  buffalo.  The  chase  led  them  into  the  sand- 
hills, and  the  men  were  soon  separated.  Hob- 
son,  intent  on  killing  his  buffalo,  kept  in  hot 
pursuit.  Over  the  sand-hills,  across  the  dry 
ravines,  they  sped  on.     Hobson  fired  several 


I40  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

shots  at  close  range,  still  the  buffalo  sped  on. 
Time  and  time  again  he  threw  his  lariat,  but 
it  fell  behind  his  game.  His  horse  was  now 
falling  behind.  The  sun  had  risen  high  in 
the  heavens  w  hen  he  gave  up  the  chase.  Not 
a  buffalo  nor  man  could  be  seen.  He  now  tried 
to  retrace  his  steps.  All  day  he  rode  from  hill 
to  hill,  but  no  train  or  trail  could  be  found. 
The  sun  had  set,  night  drew  on,  and  like  light- 
ning the  truth  that  he  was  lost  flashed  upon 
him.  The  air  was  intensely  cold.  With  his 
hat  drawn  down  over  his  eyes,  and  his  thread- 
bare coat  drawai  up  under  his  chin,  he  sat  all 
night  long  shivering  wdth  the  cold.  He  dare 
not  build  a  fii-e  for  fear  of  being  discovered 
by  the  Indians.  His  horse  was  so  thirsty  he 
would  not  feed.  When  morning  came,  he  once 
more  started  in  search  of  the  trail,  leading  his 
horse,  w-hich  had  become  so  weak  for  want  of 
water  he  could  scarcely  get  him  to  go.  Up 
and  dow^n  the  sand-hills  he  plodded  along.  It 
was  noon.  His  horse  would  go  no  farther, 
and  he  left  him  to  perish.  Every  hour  Hob- 
son's  situation  was  growing  more  serious. 
His  canteen  was  nearly  dry,  and  his  jerked 
meat  was  almost  gone.  Just  as  the  sun  went 
down  behind  the  black  hills  he  killed  a  jack- 
rabbit,  and  broiled  it  on  the  coals  made  of 
buffalo  chips. 

For  three  days  he  wandered  around  in  the 
hills  almost  famished.     On  the  evening  of  the 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  I4I 

third  day  he  came  to  a  pool  of  water.  The 
sun  was  sinking  low  in  the  western  horizon 
when  up  jumped  a  small  buffalo  calf.  He 
fired,  and  it  fell  dead  at  his  feet.  Tired  and 
hungry,  he  prepared  to  dress  it  and  make  his 
evening  meal,  when  a  great  rumbling  noise 
caused  him  to  look  up,  and  he  saw  in  the  dis- 
tance a  herd  of  a  thousand  buffalo  bearing 
down  upon  him.  They  had  been  attracted  by 
the  scent  of  the  blood.  He  had  no  time  to 
run,  and  no  place  to  which  he  could  escape, 
except  a  small  gulch  near  by.  In  this  he  took 
refuge.  Almost  instantly  he  was  surrounded 
by  the  herd,  crowding  and  goading  each  other. 
Death  seemed  inevitable.  *Ts  this  my  end?" 
he  thought  in  despair.  He  realized  the  almost 
hopeless  predicament  in  which  he  was  placed, 
for  what  man  could  hope  to  escape  from  being 
trodden  to  death. 

It  was  a  terrible  situation,  and,  although  it 
must  have  lasted  less  than  ten  minutes,  to  him 
it  seemed  interminable.  One  buffalo  with  long 
mane  fell  into  the  gulch  near  him.  With  one 
wild  leap  he  lit  upon  the  buffalo's  back,  and 
with  a  death-like  grip  he  fastened  his  hands 
in  his  shaggy  mane,  clinging  desperately  to  the 
buffalo. 

With  the  bound  of  a  tiger  the  animal 
leaped  from  the  gulch,  and  with  the  speed  of 
a  reindeer  he  left  the  herd.  In  a  moment  more 
the  loud  report  of  a  dozen  rifles  rang  out  on 


142  CROSS  IN  vi     1111:     IM.AINS    IN      49. 

the  still,  clear  air,  and  the  noble  animal  reeled 
and  fell  to  the  ground. 

Hobson  found  his  deliverers  were  a  band  of 
roving-  Indians.  Patting  him  on  the  head, 
they  called  him  ''Great  Brave."  They  cared 
for  him  tenderly,  dividing  their  sumac  with 
him. 

During  the  day  the  Indians  lay  hid  in  the 
hills.  They  had  been  putting  on  the  war  paint, 
and  one  evening,  as  the  sun  sank  behind  the 
western  hills,  they  left  camp  and,  mounting 
their  ponies,  made  for  the  valley  below. 

And  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  they  left 
their  ponies  and  Hobson  in  five  Indians'  care, 
then  silently  crept  away,  and,  with  wild  and 
hellish  yells,  they  rushed  upon  what  they 
seemed  to  think  were  their  sleeping  victinxs. 
The  Indians  had  attacked  an  emigrant  pack 
train. 

The  conflict  was  short  and  deadly.  The 
chief  was  mortally  wounded.  Many  of  the 
braves  were  killed,  and  the  rest  broke  and  fled 
in  wild  confusion.  Rushing  for  their  ponies, 
wild  with  rage  because  they  had  been  foiled, 
they  shot  Hobson ;  wounded  and  bleeding,  they 
left  him  to  his  fate. 

He  was  picked  up  by  his  victors  and  tenderly 
cared  for.  Imagine  his  surprise  and  joy  to 
find  in  his  deliverers  his  own  company,  with 
whom  he  had  left  his  happy  home  so  many 
weeks  before.  , 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 43 

Months,  weeks,  and  years  came  and  passed 
away.  It  was  March,  1902,  just  fifty-three 
years  since  he  had  left,  that  John  Hobson 
returned  to  the  Httle  log  cabin  in  Texas.  But. 
O,  what  a  change  had  taken  place !  The  old 
log  cabin  was  gone,  and  in  its  place  stood  a 
beautiful  frame  house.  But  where  were  the 
loved  ones? — Father  and  mother  had  long 
since  been  called  home  to  their  mansions  above. 
Brothers  and  sisters  were  scattered  up  and 
down  this  cold  and  selfish  world. 

Everything  was  so  sad  and  strange,  he 
turned  from  the  scene  with  an  aching  heart 
and  returned  to  old  Hangtown  (now  Placer- 
ville),  California,  where  he  met  his  old  friend, 
.Ciras  Williams,  after  a  separation  of  fifty-two 
years. 

CARSON    RIVER,    OR    RAGTOWN. 

We  had  a  picnic  traveling  up  the  river.  At 
every  camping-ground  there  was  an  abundance 
of  dry  wood,  and  plenty  of  bunch  grass  for 
the  stock. 

The  stream  was  full  of  trout,  and  we  had 
fish  every  day. 

Carson  River,  like  the  Humboldt,  flows 
out  on  the  desert  and  sinks  in  the  sand,  form- 
ing a  great  meadow  of  thousands  of  acres, 
grown  up  with  willows  and  bulrushes. 

Ragtown  was  located  on  Carson  River, 
three  miles  from  the  sink  and  forty-six  miles 


144  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

from  the  Humboldt  meadow.  It  consisted  of 
ten  small  tents,  and  one  large  one  which  was 
used  as  a  trading  post.  All  kinds  of  provi- 
sions were  for  sale,  and  whisky  galore.  Every- 
thing was  one  dollar  per  pound,  except  forty- 
rod  whisky,  which  was  twenty-five  cents  per 
drink. 

Here  we  saw  the  first  gambling-dens.  This 
was  the  rendezvous  of  the  thieves  and  gamblers 
who  came  out  from  California  to  fleece  the 
emigrants. 

I  had  my  first  and  last  experience  in  gamb- 
ling here.  Lucky  Bill,  a  notorious  gambler, 
ran  a  thimble  game,  and  fleeced  many  a  tender- 
foot. 

Jerry  Gullion  saw  a  chance  to  make  fifty 
dollars.  He  had  but  one  ox  left,  staked  that 
on  the  game,  and  lost.  Excited  and  strung 
up  on  forty-rod  whisky,  he  bet  his  last  dollar 
and  five  of  mine.  Again  he  lost,  and  that  was 
the  last  of  my  money.  From  there  to  Cali- 
fornia he  begged  his  way. 

It  was  here  Arthur  Long  was  stung  by  a 
scorpion,  and  died  in  a  few  hours.  This  was 
the  last  death  in  our  train  until  we  reached 
Hangtown. 

From  Ragtown  our  route  lay  up  Carson 
River  to  Rocky  Canyon.  Here  we  leave  the 
valley  and  climb  the  Sierra  Nevada  Mountains. 
No  road.  Not  even  a  trail.  Rocks  upon  rocks, 
steep  and  rough.     We  thought  we  had  seen 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 45 

rough  and  rocky  roads,  but  this  was  the  worst 
we  had  found. 

The  mountains  were  steep,  and  we  were 
forced  to  keep  in  the  bed  of  the  stream.  The 
water  had  washed  all  the  dirt  away  and  left 
the  bare  rocks,  over  which  we  climbed  for 
miles.  It  was  a  weary  day  for  all  of  us. 
Where  we  left  the  canyon  the  mountainside 
was  as  steep  as  the  roof  of  a  house.  Here  we 
put  eight  yoke  of  cattle  to  one  wagon,  though 
it  was  almost  empty. 

Many  of  the  cattle  and  wagons  had  to  be 
pulled  up  over  the  rock  for  fifty  feet  with  long 
ropes.  It  was  also  sidling,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  we  kept  the  wagons  from  capsizing. 

Our  cattle,  reduced  to  skin  and  bone,  toiled 
slowly  on  and  up  the  rough  ascent.  Some- 
times the  passage  between  the  cliffs  was  so 
narrow  our  wagons  could  scarcely  pass.  Often 
we  had  to  lift  th€  wagons  and  oxen  up  over 
the  rocks  that  lay  across  the  path.  Many  of 
the  rocks  were  four  and  five  feet  high,  and 
extended  across  the  entire  width  of  the  can- 
yon, consequently  it  was  difficult  to  pass.  We 
only  made  eight  miles  in  one  day,  and  camped 
in  the  canyon. 

Dishes  and  pots  out  of  the  way,  the  men 
gathered  around  the  camp-fire  to  enjoy  the 
scenery,  for  it  is  full  of  wild  and  picturesque 
beauty. 

The  cliffs  on  either  side  rise  three  and  four 


10 


146  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

hundred  feet  high.  The  rough  rocks  and  high 
cHffs  were  decorated  with  soft  moss  and  trail- 
ing vines,  and  all  the  nooks  were  filled  with 
maidenhair  fern.  Great  pines  lifted  their 
proud  heads  high  up  into  the  starlight,  while 
down  at  their  base  clustered  the  thickly-woven 
underbrush. 

August  30,  long  before  the  sun  lit  up  this 
wild  and  picturesque  canyon,  we  broke  camp. 

At  last  we  gained  the  summit  of  this  outer 
wall,  which  seemed  like  one  of  nature's  ram- 
parts guarding  the  passage  to  the  rich  gold 
fields  of  California. 

Here  we  camp  for  the  night.  We  are  on  the 
first  summit  of  the  Sierras.  We  had  some 
hard  work  to-day.  Many  large  trees  had  fallen 
across  our  pathway.  Rocks  and  dirt  had  fallen 
into  the  trail. 

Supper  over,  the  men  group  themselves, 
some  reclining  on  ox  yokes  thrown  on  the 
ground,  some  standing,  some  sitting  smoking. 
•AH  are  in  high  spirits  and  good  humor,  laugh- 
ing and  talking.  Every  pulse  beats  high,  for 
to-morrow  we  are  to  climb  the  last  summit, 
and  then  our  route  will  be  down  grade. 

THE    PIONEER    TRAIN    OF    '49. 

March  3,  1849,  was  a  cold,  frosty  morning. 
Beautiful  icicles,  more  than  ten  inches  long, 
hung  from  the  eaves  of  the  house,  and  the 
frost  on  the  leafless  shrubbery  glistened  and 


Mrs.  George  Ounger 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 47 

Sparkled  like  diamonds  in  the  bright  morning- 
sun,  when  George  Olinger,  of  Milwaukee, 
Wisconsin,  put  his  little  family,  consisting  of 
a  wife  and  two  children,  into  an  emigrant 
wagon  drawn  by  four  yoke  of  oxen,  and 
started  for  California. 

At  St.  Joseph,  on  the  Missouri  River,  he 
organized  the  pioneer  train  of  twenty  wagons, 
one  hundred  and  sixty  head  of  cattle,  twenty 
head  of  cows,  ten  head  of  saddle  horses,  eighty 
m.en,  three  women,  and  Mr.  Olinger's  two  little 
girls,  one  three  years  old,  the  other  eighteen 
months. 

On  March  12,  through  slush  and  floating 
ice,  they  crossed  the  Missouri  River  on  a  flat- 
bottomed  boat,  for  which  they  paid  ten  dollars 
per  wagon,  fifty  cents  per  head  for  cattle  and 
horses,  while  the  men  and  women  were  ferried 
over  free. 

They  took  the  buffalo  and  Indian  trail  lead- 
ing to  the  west.  A  few  pack  trains  had  gone 
on  before,  but  the  snow  and  heavy  rains  had 
obliterated  all  their  tracks.  There  was  no  feed 
for  the  stock,  hence  they  hauled  corn-meal  to 
feed  them.  At  every  camp-ground  at  night 
they  cut  down  cottonwood  and  willow  trees 
for  the  cattle  to  browse  on.  By  this  means 
they  kept  the  cattle  in  good  condition  until 
the  grass  grew. 

When  they  reached  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
they  found  many  trappers  and  hunters,  who, 


148  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

with  few  exceptions,  had  Indian  squaws  for 
wives,  and  Hved  with  the  Indians  in  their  wig- 
wams; drinking,  card  playing,  and  shooting 
at  the  target  were  the  height  of  their  ambition. 
They  had  no  Sunday,  and  scarcely  knew  the 
day  of  the  month.  They  had  no  books  or 
papers,  and  lived  in  perfect  ignorance  of  the 
outside  world.  They  were  kind  and  hospitable 
to  the  pioneer  train,  telling  them  the  names 
of  the  rivers  and  the  distance  between  camping- 
grounds,  also  where  they  could  find  feed  and 
water  for  their  cattle. 

The  hardships  and  difficulties  encountered 
by  this  pioneer  train  in  its  pass  over  the  Rocky 
Mountains  can  not  be  described.  Not  a  stone 
or  a  shovelful  of  dirt  had  ever  been  moved  to 
make  a  road.  They  must  climb  the  steep  and 
rocky  mountainside  where  there  was  not  even 
a  trail,  then  down  into  the  rocky  canyons 
where  a  buffalo  or  elk  could  scarcely  go,  in 
many  instances  cutting  down  trees  and  chain- 
ing them  to  the  hind  ends  of  the  wagons  to 
keep  them  from  turning  end  over  end  into  the 
rushing  stream  below,  which  they  must  cross 
without  a  boat. 

On  some  occasions  they  made  rafts ;  on  oth- 
ers they  used  their  wagon-beds  for  boats. 

Like  many  of  the  other  trains,  their  wagons 
were  too  heavy  and  overloaded,  hence  they 
threw  away  many  things,  including  bacon, 
flour,  and  other  articles, 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    ^49.  1 49 

When  they  reached  Fort  Laramie,  the  sight 
of  the  fort  was  hailed  with  joy.  No  wonder 
Mr.  Ohnger's  httle  babe  clapped  its  tiny  hands 
with  joy,  and  pointed  its  linger  toward  the  fort, 
crying,  "Ouse,  ouse!"  for  the  child  was  just 
learning  to  talk. 

This  little  girl,  who  had  beautiful  auburn 
hair,  was  the  cause  of  much  fear  and  appre- 
hension during  the  entire  journey.  The  In- 
dians took  a  great  fancy  to  the  child,  always 
pointing  to  her  auburn  curls  and  red  morocco 
shoes.  Many  times  did  they  want  to  trade 
Indian  beads  and  moccasins  for  the  child.  On 
one  occasion  a  band  of  Indians  followed  the 
train  for  three  days,  endeavoring  to  make  a 
trade.  At  last  they  offered  several  ponies  and 
many  strings  of  beads  for  the  sweet  child,  and 
when  they  found  they  could  not  get  it,  they 
placed  many  strings  of  beads  around  its  neck 
and  gave  it  a  little  pair  of  moccasins  beauti- 
fully worked  with  red  and  white  beads,  and 
after  much  pow-wowing  they  left.  After  that 
her  mother  never  let  her  out  of  sight  when  the 
Indians  were  near. 

July  4  they  camped  on  Buffalo  Creek. 
Every  man  had  a  pie  made  of  the  buffalo  ber- 
ries which  grew  along  the  banks  of  the  creek, 
and  from  which  it  derived  its  name.  The  next 
morning  more  than  a  score  of  them  were  actu- 
ally foundered  on  buffalo  berries. 

On  July  20  a  favorite  ox  was  sick,  and  they 


150  CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

gave  it  water  and  feed  and  left  it  to  die.  The 
second  day,  after  camping  for  the  night,  the 
ox  came  lowing  and  running  into  camp.  11u' 
poor,  sick  ox  had  followed  the  trail  of  the  train 
two  days  and  nights,  and  traveled  over  fifty 
miles.  That  ox  finally  reached  California,  and 
when  fat  sold  for  two  hundred  dollars. 

September  12  they  camped  at  the  fated  camp- 
ground of  the  Donner  party.  The  ground  was 
strewn  with  the  bones  of  the  cattle,  horses,  and 
dogs  the  ill-fated  party  had  killed  to  sustain 
their  own  lives  while  snowbound  in  the  Sierra 
Nevada  Mountains. 

Many  of  the  stumps  of  the  trees  they  had 
cut  down  for  wood  were  fifteen  to  twenty  feet 
high,  indicating  that  the  snow  had  fallen  to 
that  depth. 

Mr.  Olinger  and  his  little  family  arrived 
in  California  on  September  16,  and  settled 
near  Vacaville.  In  after  years  they  moved  to 
Vallejo,  where  Mr.  Olinger  died  in  1872.  Mrs. 
Olinger,  now  in  her  eighty-fourth  year,  lives 
in  Vallejo.  She  still  has  the  Bible  she  read 
a  chapter  in  every  day  while  crossing  the  plains. 
She  is  a  faithful  Methodist,  and  no  one  can 
make  her  believe  that  the  constant  reading  of 
the  Word  of  God  and  faith  in  Christ  did  not 
have  something  to  do  with  keeping  the  Indians 
from  molesting  the  train.  It  was  the  rule  and 
custom  to  let  the  train  rest  in  camp  over  Sun- 
day, when  it  was  possible  to  do  so,  and  many 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS   IN     49.  15I 

a  pleasant  and  happy  Sabbath  day  they  spent 
while  crossing  the  plains.  The  little  girl  with 
auburn  curls  is  now  Mrs.  Hodgkenson,  who  also 
Hves  in  Vallejo. 

SUMMIT   OF  THE   SIERRAS. 

We  tiad  some  hard  climbing  to  reach  the 
summit  of  the  snow-capped  mountain.  It  is 
impossible  for  one  to  have  any  idea  what  we 
had  to  pass  through  and  over  to-day,  without 
actual  experience  or  a  visit  to  this  wild  and 
rocky  canyon. 

At  last  we  reached  the  summit  and  camped. 
All  were  tired  and  weary,  but  every  heart  beat 
with  joy. 

We  were  now  nearer  heaven  than  we  ever 
had  been  before.  A  beautiful  spring  of  icy 
water  gushed  and  bubbled  from  the  rocks, 
beneath  a  bank  of  snow  ten  feet  deep. 

Overhead  the  stars  glitter  and  sparkle  like 
diamonds  in  the  blue  canopy  of  heaven. 

The  tall,  graceful  pines  that  cover  the  moun- 
tainside sang  their  sweet  songs  of  health  as 
the  gentle  sea  breeze  swept  through  their 
boughs. 

Stretching  away  to  the  west,  lying  at  our 
feet,  was  the  rich,  fertile  valley  of  the  golden 
West,  while  far  beyond  was  the  rockbound 
shore  of  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

September  3. — The  sun  rose  bright  and 
clear,  looking  out  from  his  cloudless  throne  in 


152  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49. 

the  heavens,  kissing  the  glittering  mountain 
peaks  and  sparkUng  vales,  for  ice  had  formed 
on  all  the  shrubbery  during  the  night.  The 
dewdrops  glistened  and  sparkled  like  myriads 
of  diamonds  for  a  moment,  and  then  vanished 
away. 

It  was  one  of  those  early  September  morn- 
ings, the  most  beautiful  of  all  in  these  snow- 
capped mountains.  The  morning  air,  fresh 
from  the  sun-kissed  snow-banks  and  sweet  with 
the  scent  of  the  pines  and  hemlocks,  was  filled 
with  sweet  fragrance. 

Last  night  we  camped  on  the  summit  of  the 
Sierras.  Great  night  for  all  of  us  it  was. 
After  bacon  and  beans,  with  rich,  strong  cof- 
fee to  wash  them  down,  we  lingered  around 
the  dying  camp-fire  and  spun  long  yarns  about 
our  adventures. 

This  is  the  highest  altitude  the  emigrant 
train  passes  over,  ten  thousand  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea.  In  the  distance,  and  spread 
out  before  us  like  a  great  panorama,  lay  the 
gold  fields  of  California. 

To-day  the  train  takes  a  dip,  and  descends 
rapidly  into  the  valley  below,  three  hundred 
miles  to  the  Pacific  Ocean.  Every  heart  is 
filled  with  new  hope.  We  are  on  the  down 
grade  to  the  gold  fields.  The  wagons  are  al- 
most empty.  Though  the  cattle  are  poor  and 
weak,  we  go  down  hill  at  a  lively  rate. 

The  water  is  good  and  cold.    Provisions  are 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  15^ 

plentiful  since  we  passed  Ragtown.  There 
we  bought  flour,  bacon,  coffee,  and  sugar  at 
one  dollar  per  pound.  Feed  is  good,  and  all 
are  happy. 

Only  two  sick  men  in  the  train, — James  Bry- 
ant and  William  Fisher.  Bryant  came  from 
Eddyville,  Iowa.  We  have  hauled  him  nearly 
three  months.  He  was  taken  sick  at  Green 
River.  In  helping  to  swim  the  cattle  across, 
he  took  a  chill,  and  has  t)een  sick  in  the  wagon 
ever  since.  Not  one  murmur  from  him, 
though  his  hip  bones  had  worn  through  the 
skin.  At  Ragtown  a  trader  gave  him  some 
medicine,  and  he  finally  recovered  after  he 
arrived  in  California. 

A    PATHETIC    STORY. 

North  of  the  pass  in  the  cliffs  and  rocks  is 
the  fated  camp  of  the  Donner  party.  It  con- 
sisted of  one  hundred  and  thirty  souls,  of 
whom  over  one  hundred  died  of  starvation  in 
the  winter  of  1846  and  1847. 

The  story,  as  related  by  George  Donner,  the 
youngest  of  the  Donner  family,  is  sad  in  the 
extreme.     In  outline  it  is  as  follows : — 

The  Donner  party  had  made  an  effort  to 
cross  the  mountains,  and  was  overtaken  by 
storms.  Snow  fell  in  many  places  twenty  to 
thirty  feet  deep.  Several  of  the  party  lost  their 
lives  trying  to  find  their  way  out.     When  the 


154  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    ^49. 

snow  melted,  their  remains  were  found  scat- 
tered all  over  the  mountainside. 

Days,  weeks,  and  months  passed,  and  still 
the  storm  held  the  party  snowbound. 

They  saw  their  provisions  fading  away. 
First  on  half  rations,  then  just  enough  to  sus- 
tain life.  The  last  ox  and  horse  had  been 
killed,  then  their  faithful  dogs,  and,  lastly,  they 
boiled  the  old  ox  and  horse  hides,  and  were 
living  on  them  when  they  were  rescued. 

Had  it  not  been  for  a  sad  affair  which  took 
place  in  the  Donner  train  before  they  were 
snowbound,  the  entire  train,  without  doubt, 
would  have  perished. 

Some  time  before  they  were  caught  in  the 
storm,  a  man  by  the  name  of  Reed  had  quar- 
reled with  one  of  the  party,  and  killed  him. 
For  this  he  was  driven  from  the  train,  to  starve 
in  the  wilderness.  He  made  his  way  over  the 
mountains  to  some  settlement. 

After  waiting  anxiously  for  days  and  weeks 
for  the  train  to  arrive,  and  still  it  came  not. 
Reed  spread  the  news  that  the  train  was  prob- 
ably snowbound.  He  organized  a  rescuing 
party.  At  the  same  time  John  A.  Sutter  or- 
ganized one,  and  there  was  one  organized  at 
Vallejo  also. 

In  this  party  was  one  J^ick  Tucker,  who 
now  lives  in  Napa  City.  All  of  the  rescuing 
parties  made  their  way  into  the  mountains  of 
snow  and  ice.     After  days  and  \veeks  of  toil 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  155 

and  hardship,  the  Donner  party  was  located. 

Now  came  the  herculean  task  of  getting  the 
starving  emigrants  out  of  the  snow.  Horses 
and  mules  could  not  go  through  the  snow, 
hence  they  must  be  left  at  the  l)ase  of  the  moun- 
tain. The  rescuing  party  had  to  carry  pro- 
visions en  their  backs  to  the  surviving  emi- 
grants. 

When  one  of  the  rescuing  party  left  with 
provisions  for  the  Donner  party,  they  were  so 
near  gone  when  he  arrived  at  the  camp  thai 
he  had  but  little  to  give  the  starving  women 
and  children,  and,  after  dividing  with  them, 
he  had  but  little  with  which  to  sustain  life  on 
tlie  outward  journey. 

The  women  and  children  had  to  be  carried 
out,  for  they  were  too  weak  to  walk. 

All  honor  to  Reed,  for  it  is  said  that  his  own 
wife  and  child  were  the  last  that  he  helped  to 
carry  from  the  starving  camp.  While  carry- 
ing his  child  out,  he  saw  that  it  was  starving. 
He  had  a  sack  which  had  contained  flour,  and 
this  he  wet  and  gave  to  the  child  to  suck,  which 
saved  its  life. 

Whole  chapters,  yes,  whole  books,  might  be 
written  on  the  sufferings  of  and  heroic  efforts 
to  save  the  starving  emigrants.  But  to  tell 
of  one  will  give  the  reader  a  faint  idea  of  the 
hardships  and  sufferings  the  rescuing  parties 
endured. 

Jack  Tucker,  who  was  with  the  party  that 


156 


CROSSING    tHE    PLAINS    IN     4^. 


left  Vallejo,  was  so  near  starving  that  he 
chewed  and  ate  his  buckskin  pants  off  up  to 
his  knees. 

George  Donner,  the  youngest  of  the  Don- 
ner  family,  lived  near  Winters  for  many  years. 
He  died  in  Santa  Rosa.  His  half  brother, 
Sol  Hook,  lived  in  Winters  and  died  there. 

September  8. — We  camped  on  the  western 
slope  of  the  Sierra  Mountains  and  the  eastern 
line  of  California.     The  mountains  are  steep 


and   rough,   covered   with   heavy   timber   and 
underbrush. 

This  is  the  home  of  the  California  lion  and 
grizzly  bear.  Dan  Snider,  while  on  guard, 
was  attacked  by  a  large  bear.  A  death  strug- 
gle ensued.  Snider  rammed  a  double-barreled 
shotgun  into  the  bear's  mouth  and  pulled  both 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 57 

triggers.  Two  loads  of  buckshot  went  crash- 
ing through  his  head,  ending  the  fight  in 
Snider's  favor.  (The  author  ate  a  piece  of  the 
bear.) 

September  lo. — It  is  almost  impossible  to 
realize  that  we  have  passed  the  last  summit 
and  are  now  on  the  down  grade. 

No  words  can  adequately  express  the  joy  of 
an  emigrant  train  of  sunburnt,,  ragged,  and 
dusty  men  when  they  know  that  they  are  on 
the  downward  grade  to  the  gold  fields  of  Cali- 
fornia. I  shall  never  forget  the  day  we  passed 
over  the  last  summit. 

September  ii. — To-day  one  of  the  wagons 
capsized  and  rolled  down  the  mountainside, 
dragging  three  yoke  of  oxen  with  it.  They 
lodged  a  hundred  feet  below  against  the  trees, 
and  three  of  the  oxen  were  killed.  William 
Fisher  was  sick  in  the  wagon,  but  escaped  with 
only  a  few  bruises.  The  wagon  was  left  lodged 
against   the  tree. 

THE  LONE  WAGON. 

Andrew  McClorey,  of  Winters,  is  the  only 
man  who  has  the  honor  of  crossing  the  plains 
alone  in  '49  with  a  single  wagon.  At  St. 
Joseph  he  bought  his  outfit,  consisting  of  three 
yoke  of  cattle,  a  light  wagon,  and  one  saddle 
mule,  and  provisions  for  one  year.  He  refused 
to  join  a  train,  and  with  his  cousin,  William 
McClorev,   he  launched  out  into  the  wilder- 


158  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

ness  with  a  lone  wagon.  He  defied  the  red- 
skins, and  they  looked  upon  them  as  great 
braves.  For  over  one  thousand  miles  they 
traveled  alone.  Many  nights,  when  they 
camped,  they  were  surrounded  by  the  Indians, 
who  did  not  molest  them. 

On  the  headwaters  of  the  Humboldt  they 
overtook  a  train  from  llHnois.  Mr.  McClorey 
had  known  the  captain  in  the  Mexican  War, 
and  to  him  he  gave  his  Avagon  and  oxen,  and, 
in  company  with  three  other  men, — Cob 
Davenport,  John  Brassfield,  and  Tom  Bass- 
ford, — they  struck  out.  on  foot  for  Sutter's 
Fort. 

On  August  8  they  camped  at  the  old  saw- 
mill where  gold  was  first  discovered  in  1847. 

Mr.  McClorey  looked  upon  the  whole  jour- 
ney as  a  picnic.  The  old  pioneer  now  lives 
in  Winters,  where  he  settled  many  years  ago. 

THE   BOYS   WHO    HAD   THE   GOLD   FEVER. 

Among  the  many  thousand  who  left  their 
happy  homes  and  turned  their  faces  toward  the 
setting  sun  in  1849,  i"  search  of  the  gold  fields 
of  California,  was  J.  M.  Pleasants,  of  Warren 
County,  Missouri,  and  his  two  boys,  William 
and  Edward. 

William  was  in  nis  sixteenth  year,  while 
Edward  was  only  a  mere  lad. 

When  the  news  of  the  wonderful  discov- 
ery of  gold  in  California  reached  that  happy 


>^     or   THf 

UNIVERSITY 

or 


J.  M.  Pleasants 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 59 

home,  Mr.  Pleasants  and  his  two  boys  took 
the  gold  fever.  The  pleadings  and  prayers  of 
loved  ones  fell  on  deaf  ears,  and  they  soon 
prepared  to  seek  their  fortunes  in  the  land  of 
gold. 

Mr.  Pleasants,  then  in  the  prime  of  life,  re- 
solved to  be  among  the  first  to  reach  the  gold 
fields.  In  an  old  thimble-skein  wagon,  with 
hickory  poles  for  bows,  over  which  was  drawn 
common  muslin  for  a  cover,  they  piled  blan- 
kets, clothes,  and  provisions  enough  to  last 
them  six  months,  while  their  old  Kentucky 
rifles,  shot  pouch,  and  powder  horns  were  se- 
curely fastened  to  the  bows. 

On  April  i6,  with  four  yoke  of  young  cattle, 
two  milk  cows,  and  one  saddle  horse,  a  light 
wagon,  and  a  well-selected  outfit,  they  bade 
adieu  to  loved  ones  and  civilization,  and 
joined  the  pioneers  in  one  mad  rush  for  the 
gold  fields. 

April  18  they  joined  a  large  train  that  took 
the  Indian  and  buffalo  trail  leading  to  the  west, 
up  the  south  side  of  Platte  River. 

The  wild  and  desolate  land,  the  ever-chang- 
ing scenery,  the  thousands  of  buffalo  and  elk 
and  antelope  that  crossed  their  path,  filled  their 
}-oung  hearts  with  joy.  With  what  pleasure 
they  pursued  the  wild  game  over  the  broad 
l^rairie  and  sand-hills ! 

Days  and  weeks  had  passed,  and  nothing- 
had  transpired  to  mar  the  pleasure  of  their 


l6o  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

young  hearts.  But,  alas,  a  sad  gloom  fell  over 
the  entire  train  long  before  they  reached  Ash 
Hollow,  four  hundred  miles  from  the  Missouri 
River.  The  cholera  made  its  appearance  in 
the  train,  and  claimed  John  Coleman  as  its 
first  victim.  They  had  scarcely  left  the  fresh- 
made  grave  when  the  dreaded  scourge  claimed 
Edwin  Roe  as  another  victim. 

The  heat  was  intense,  water  poor,  and  men 
sick  in  almost  every  wagon.  The  train  was 
almost  panic-stricken.  Nearly  every  day  the 
cholera  claimed  a  victim,  until  ten  of  their 
comrades  had  been  left  in  lonely  graves — no, 
not  lonely  graves,  for  other  trains  buried  their 
comrades  by  their  sides.  Not  till  they  reached 
the  mountains,  with  cool  nights  and  pure,  cold 
water,  did  the  scourge  leave  the  train. 

Their  cattle  young,  the  wagon  light  and  not 
overloaded,  they  were  able  to  be  among  the 
pioneer  wagons,  hence  they  found  wood,  water, 
and  feed  for  their  cattle  in  abundance. 

The  Indians  were  friendly,  and  in  many 
instances  aided  them  in  finding  feed  and  water 
for  the  cattle. 

Their  greatest  difficulty  was  in  crossing  the 
rapid  streams  and  following  the  rough  and 
crooked  trail  up  and  over  the  rough  mountain- 
side, for  many  trees  and  rocks  had  fallen  across 
their  pathway. 

On  many  of  the  rapid  streams  there  was  no 
boat  except  a  few  Indian  canoes,  which  were 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  161 

lashed  together  with  long  poles  and  the  wagons 
and  provisions  taken  over,  while  the  cattle  and 
horses  swam  across  the  stream. 

The  train,  which  consisted  of  twenty-six 
wagons  and  one  hundred  men,  was  well  or- 
ganized, and  perfect  harmony  prevailed  during 
the  entire  trip. 

Many  little  incidents  and  mishaps  transpired, 
but  after  five  months  of  toil  and  hardships 
they  arrived  at  Bid  well's  Bar,  on  Feather 
River,  and,  like  thousands  of  other  emigrants, 
tried  their  luck  at  mining,  but  were  not  suc- 
cessful in  finding  a  rich  mine.  Tired  and  dis- 
gusted with  the  mines,  early  in  1850  they  made 
their  way  to  Solano  County,  and  located  in 
what  is  now  known  as  Pleasants  Valley,  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  rich  and  early  fruit  belt. 

During  the  winter  of  1850  Mr.  Pleasants 
and  his  two  boys  spent  their  time  in  hunting, 
killing  deer,  elk,  and  bear,  which  they  packed 
to  Sacramento  on  mules,  selling  it  for  twenty- 
five  to  fifty  cents  per  pound.  Some  of  the  bear 
would  tip  the  scales  at  four  to  five  hundred 
pounds,  thus  bringing  from  seventy-five  to  one 
hundred  dollars  per  bear. 

For  over  fifty  years  Mr.  Pleasants  resided 
in  Pleasants  Valley,  though  visiting  the  home 
of  his  youth  several  times.  At  the  ripe  old 
age  of  ninety-one  he  passed  over  to  the  land 
from  whence  no  traveler  ever  returns. 

W.  J.  Pleasants,  the  oldest  boy  of  whom  we 


11 


l62  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

write,  still  lives  on  the  old  homestead,  while 
Edward  lives  in  Orange  County,  California. 

HOW    JOHN    REED    KILLED    HIS    BEAR. 

The  writer  is  indebted  to  James  Lovejoy,  a 
comrade  of  Reed's  while  crossing  the  plains 
in  1849,  for  the  following  thrilling  story,  told 
in  his  own  words : — 

September  14. — We  had  camped  for  the 
night.  Our  oxen  were  tied  to  the  trees.  Sup- 
per w^as  over,  and  we  were  still  chatting  around 
the  camp-fire,  while  the  smouldering  embers 
were  burning  low. 

It  was  one  of  those  still,  clear  nigts,  which 
are  so  often  found  in  the  mountain  gorges. 
The  moon  shown  dimly,  throwing  the  long 
shadows  of  the  stately  pines  across  the  track- 
less forest.  The  air  had  become  deathly  still. 
Hark!  what  is  that?  Evidently  a  California 
lion  is  creeping  upon  our  cattle.  The  moon 
had  gone  down.  The  stars  were  shut  out  by 
the  dense  forest  and  underbrush,  and  it  had 
become  intensely  dark.  We  could  not  see  a 
rod  away.  With  rifle  in  hand  we  awaited  the 
approach  of  the  lion.  He  set  up  a  most  un- 
earthly growl,  and  seized  one  of  the  oxen. 
We  could  hear  him  breaking  the  bones  of  his 
prey,  and  yet  we  had  no  notion  of  interrupting 
him. 

Hours  passed.  The  coyotes  were  gathering 
around,  snarling  and  fighting,  but  dared  not 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 63 

approach.  Suddenly  they  left.  Not  fifty  yards 
away  came  a  grizzly  bear  crashing  through 
the  brush,  making  straight  for  the  lion  and  ox. 
It  was  evident  there  would  be  a  conflict  be- 
tween them.  The  woods  echoed  with  their 
savage  growling.  We  waited,  but  not  calmly, 
for  the  result.  The  lion,  though  not  half  the 
size  of  the  bear,  defended  his  prey  with  such 
courage  and  skill  that  old  bruin  soon  found 
his  match,  and  was  compelled  to  retire. 

Pie  discovered  the  other  oxen  tied  to  the 
trees,  and  made  for  them.  They  plunged  and 
bellowed,  but  the  bear  soon  laid  one  of  them 
low,  and  on  it  gorged  himself. 

Hours  now  seemed  days  to  us.  How  we 
longed  for  the  light  of  another  day!  Tired 
and  weary  with  watching,  we  fell  into  a  doze. 
As  day  dawned,  John  Reed  roused  from  his 
slumber,  and,  seeing  our  noble  and  faithful  ox, 
that  had  helped  to  drag  our  wagon  across  the 
plains  and  over  the  snow-capped  mountains  for 
two  thousand  miles,  lying  dead,  he  resolved  to 
kill  that  bear  or  lose  his  life  in  the  attempt. 

He  quietly  crept  from  his  comrades,  and, 
with  rifle  in  hand,  started  on  the  bear's  trail. 

Was  General  Jackson  ever  in  a  rage.  Reed 
was  more  so.  But  how  soon  he  was  to  bitterly 
repent  of  his  folly!  His  imprudent  and  wild 
rage  led  him  on  and  on.  For  miles  Reed 
followed  on  the  bear's  trail,  suddenly  coming 
upon  him.     The  bear  rushed  at  him  with  open 


164  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

mouth.  Reed  fired,  making  a  flesh  wound; 
this  only  increased  the  bear's  fury.  Reed  was 
forced  to  flee  for  his  Ufe.  Dropping  his  gun, 
he  cHmbed  a  small  tree,  but  not  in  time  to 
escape  the  bear's  claws.  The  bear  seized  Reed 
by  one  leg,  but  fortunately  his  boot  pulled 
off,  and  the  bear  went  crashing  to  the  ground, 
taking  with  him  Reed's  boot  and  pants. 

Reed  now  climbed  to  the  topmost  branch. 
Time  and  time  again  did  old  bruin  endeavor 
to  reach  him,  but,  the  tree  being  small,  the 
bear  was  obliged  to  give  it  up.  The  bear 
walked  around  the  tree,  taking  a  survey  of 
things.  He  then  flew  at  the  tree,  endeavoring 
to  tear  it  down.  The  sun  was  sinking  low 
in  the  western  horizon.  Still  old  bruin  held 
his  post. 

Reed's  situation  was  now  becoming  critical, 
for  at  every  gust  of  wind,  which  had  risen,  the 
tree  would  swing  to  and  fro.  The  wind  in- 
creased to  a  gale,  and  Reed  saw  the  tree  must 
soon  go,  and  with  it  he  must  fall  into  the  very 
jaws  of  death. 

The  bear  evidently  knew  Reed  must  soon 
come  to  the  ground,  for  he  watched  him  with 
the  eagerness  of  a  cat,  ready  to  pounce  upon 
its  prey. 

The  wind  had  increased  to  a  hurricane,  and 
the  tree  came  crashing  to  the  ground.  With- 
out pants  or  boots,  Reed  struck  out  for  dear 
life,  with  the  bear  close  at  his  heels.     At  every 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  1 65 

jump  he  could  feel  the  warm  breath  of  the 
bear,  so  close  was  he  upon  him. 

Reed's  strength  was  failing  fast,  and  could 
hold  out  but  a  little  longer,  when  the  loud 
report  of  three  rifles  rang  out  upon  the  clear 
mountain  air. 

After  anxiously  waiting  and  watching  for 
Reed  to  return,  Ike  Harris,  Bob  Smith,  and 
William  Boyer  took  the  bear's  trail  in  search 
of  Reed.  Mile  after  mile  they  crept  through 
the  underbrush.  Just  as  they  came  out  into 
the  open  timber.  Reed  and  the  bear  came  rush- 
ing toward  them.  They  fired,  and  old  bruin 
fell  dead  at  their  feet.  Reed  gave  a  sigh  of 
relief  to  know  he  was  saved  from  old  bruin's 
claws. 

THE   BURNT    WAGON. 

In  Marion  County,  Iowa,  in  1853,  on  the 
broad  prairie,  stood  a  lonely  cabin,  the  home 
of  Silas  Brown  and  James  Tong.  Before  the 
door  stood  an  emigrant  wagon  and  four  yoke 
of  restless  oxen.  With  busy  hands  they  piled 
bed  and  bedding  into  the  wagon.  All  things 
ready,  Mrs.  Brown  and  Mrs.  Tong,  with  her 
babe,  took  their  seats  in  the  wagon  that  was 
to  be  their  home  for  six  months.  Little  did 
they  dream  of  the  hardships  that  awaited  them. 
Brown  cracked  his  long  whip,  and  the  oxen 
started  with  their  heavy  load  for  the  gold  fields. 

At  St.  Joseph,  Missouri,  they  joined  a  large 


1 66  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

train  of  twenty-eight  wagons,  one  hundred 
and  twelve  men,  six  women,  and  three  chil- 
dren, two  hundred  and  twenty-four  oxen,  and 
two  cows.  They  also  had  ten  head  of  saddle 
horses. 

June  25. — Feed  was  scarce,  cattle  were  poor, 
and  many  of  them  lame  and  giving  out. 
Brown  and  Tong  left  the  large  train  and 
camped  by  themselves,  in  hopes  that  their  cat- 
tle might  get  more  feed. 

July  4,  1853,  was  a  lovely  morning.  No 
boomiing  of  the  cannon.  No  sign  of  civiliza- 
tion. Not  a  sound  could  be  heard  in  that  vast 
wilderness,  except  the  whistling  of  the  mock- 
ing-bird and  the  twitter  of  the  little  sparrows 
at  the  approach  of  a  new  day. 

It  was  still  dark  when  Brown  and  Tong 
went  in  search  of  their  cattle,  but  no  cattle 
could  be  found.  The  large  train,  that  was 
camped  in  sight,  pulled  out  and  left  them. 
They  soon  found  the  trail  where  the  Indians 
had  driven  their  cattle  off.  Brown  and  Tong 
left  the  women  at  camp  and  went  in  pursuit  of 
the  Indians. 

The  women,  tired  and  weary  of  waiting  for 
the  men  to  return,  went  to  hunt  berries,  of 
which  there  were  many  on  the  banks  of  the 
creek.  They  had  not  left  the  wagon  far  when 
they  saw  the  blue  smoke  curling  up  and  a  band 
of  Indians  dancing  around  the  burning  wagon 


CROSSING   THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  1 67 

and  tent.  Trembling  with  fear,  they  crawled 
into  the  brush  with  the  babe,  and  hid. 

Higher  and  higher  rose  the  sun,  and  the 
heat  was  intense.  "  They  were  nearly  famished 
for  water  and  food,  but  they  dare  not  move 
lest  they  be  discovered  by  the  red  devils.  The 
sun  was  sinking  low  in  the  western  horizon 
when,  trembling  with  fear,  and  almost  fam- 
ished for  water,  they  crawled  out  from  their 
hiding-place.  In  the  distance  they  saw  their 
husbands  returning  without  an  ox.  They  met 
the  men  at  the  camp,  where  all  was  in  ashes, 
and  not  a  morsel  of  food  or  a  stitch  of  cloth- 
ing was  left,  except  what  they  had  on  their 
backs,  not  a  blanket  to  keep  out  the  cold  night 
air. 

They  took  the  babe  in  their  arms  and  started 
on  the  trail  to  overtake  the  train.  Over  the 
rough,  rocky  road,  through  the  deep  sand,  and 
up  and  down  the  steep  hills,  they  trudged  along, 
carrying  their  precious  burden.  It  had  cried 
itself  to  sleep  begging  for  something  to  eat. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  behind  the  snow- 
capped mountains,  and  the  bright,  full  moon 
had  arisen,  throwing  the  shadow  of  the  tall, 
stately  pines  across  the  trackless  forest.  The 
shades  of  night  had  set  in.  Still  weary  and 
faint  for  want  of  food,  they  trudged  along. 
Hark !  'tis  the  sound  of  voices.  "Indians !  In- 
dians !"  the  women  exclaimed.  With  a  moth- 
er's love,  Mrs.  Tong  hugged  her  babe  to  her 


1 68  CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49. 

throbbing  heart.  They  stopped  in  the  trail, 
the  men  with  rifles  in  hand,  awaiting  the  ap- 
proach of  the  enemy.  Nearer  and  nearer  they 
came,  when  the  voice  of  a  white  man  fell  on 
their  ears.  Then  went  up  a  shout  of  joy,  for 
it  was  two  men  on  horseback  from  their  own 
train,  with  food  and  water  for  their  unfortu- 
nate companions. 

The  women  and  babe  were  taken  on  the 
horse,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day  they  reached 
the  camp  of  the  large  train,  and  were  saved. 

THE     CAMP-FIRE. 

The  most  pleasant  part  of  the  trip  across 
the  plains  in  '49-' 50  was  around  the  camp-fire. 
Supper  over,  dishes  and  pots  out  of  the  way, 
we  would  gather  around  the  camp-fire  and  re- 
late the  scenes  of  the  day,  and  spin  long  yarns. 
Some  played  the  violin,  others  the  accordeon. 
A  few  would  play  cards,  while  the  young  men 
would  sing  their  favorite  California  songs : — 
It  rained  all  night,  the  day  I  left, 

The  weather,  it  was  dry. 
The  sun  so  hot,  I  froze  to  death,  * 

Susanna,  don't  you  cry. 

Chorus: — 

0  Susanna, 

Don't  you  cry  for  me, 
I'm  going  to  California, 
Some  gold  dust  for  to  see. 

1  had  a  dream  the  other  night, 
When  everything  was  still; 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN    '49.  1 69 

I  dreamed  I  saw  Susanna,  dear, 
A-coming  down  the  hill. 
Chorus. 

The  buckwheat  cake  was  in  her  mouth, 

The  tear  stood  in  her  eye, 
And  all  that  I  could  say  to  her 

Was,  Susanna  don't  you  cry. 
Chorus. 

Though  there  were  many  pleasant  and 
happy  hours  in  camp,  there  were  times  when 
every  heart  was  filled  with  sorrow. 

July  20  had  been  a  long  and  weary  day. 
Tired  with  the  toils  of  the  day,  the  entire  train 
had  sought  rest — no,  not  all,  for  there  was  one 
who  found  no  rest.  Uncle  Tobin,  as  he  was 
called  by  all,  lay  suffering  in  his  tent.  He  was 
taken  sick  on  the  Platte  River,  seven  hundred 
miles  behind.  For  weeks  we  had  hauled  him 
over  the  rough  and  rocky  road,  and  not  a 
murmur  escaped  his  lips.  The  small  hours 
of  the  night  drew  on.  Lying  in  my  tent,  I 
could  hear  him  offer  up  his  feeble  prayer  and 
in  low  accents  sing  his  favorite  song: — 

On  the  other  side  of  Jordan, 
In  the  sweet  fields  of  Eden, 
Where  the  tree  of  Life  is  blooming 
There  is  rest  for  me. 

Poor  old  soul,  that  was  his  last  song  on 
earth,  for,  when  the  morning  dawned,  his 
spirit  had  taken  flight.  We  wrapped  him  in 
his  blankets  and  laid  him  away.    We  gathered 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49.  I7I 

wild  flowers  and  strewed  them  on  his  grave, 
for  we  all  had  learned  to  love  Uncle  Tobin. 

September  15,  1850. — To-day  we  passed  the 
first  mining  camp.  The  old  log  cabin  of  '49 
has  been  crushed  by  the  heavy  snow.  Near  by 
stands  the  new  trading  post,  made  of  shakes. 
In  this  camp  the  writer  did  his  first  day's  work 
in  the  mines,  and  found  one  piece  of  gold  w^orth 
eight  dollars.  This  piece  of  gold  he  carried 
to  Ohio,  thence  to  Iowa,  then  back  to  Cali- 
fornia. Then,  in  1854,  his  wife  sold  it  to  buy 
bread  for  her  oldest  child. 

In  after  years  this  camp  was  known  as 
Johnson  ranch. 

Three  miles  from  this  camp,  in  1850,  the 
Indians  took  two  men,  John  Tuttle  and  James 
Deaner,  laid  them  on  a  log,  and  cut  them  up 
by  joints,  and  left  them  lying  on  the  log.  Two 
days  afterward  the  writer  saw  twenty-one  In- 
dians in  one  pile,  that  the  miners  had  killed 
in  revenge. 

ONLY   THREE   MEALS. 

The  most  amusing  feature  of  the  trip  across 
the  plains  in  '49-' 50  was  the  cooking.  The 
outfit  of  cooking  utensils  when  we  got  through 
was  not  elaborate, — one  iron  pot,  one  skillet 
or  Dutch  oven,  in  which  we  bak^d  bread,  one 
coffee-pot,  and  a  teapot  to  each  wagon.  All 
the  other  pots,  kettles,  and  pans  had  been 
thrown  awav.     As  a  rule,  there  were  four  men 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS    IN     49  173 

to  the  wagon.  John  got  the  wood  and  started 
the  fire;  Dick  fetched  the  water;  Ben  looked 
after  the  cattle ;  Frank  got  supper, — fried 
bacon,  cooked  flapjacks,  and  made  tea. 

It  took  an  expert  to  cook  flapjacks.  When 
one  side  was  done,  they  were  flipped  up  in  the 
air  and  lit  in  the  pan  the  cooked  side  up. 

For  breakfast,  hot  biscuit,  made  with  cold 
water  and  saleratus,  fried  bacon,  and  coffee. 
Dinner,  cold  bread  or  crackers,  w4th  cold  meat 
or  raw  bacon.  Sundays  wx  had  boiled  beans 
and  dumplings,  and  on  special  occasions  we 
had  a  pot  of  boiled  rice  with  sugar  on  it. 

September  i6. — We  arrived  at  Hangtown, 
the  end  of  our  journey.  It  is  a  long  lane  that 
has  no  end. 

So  we  found  the  trail  that  led  to  Califor- 
nia. After  six  months  of  toil  and  harships, 
across  the  dreary  and  sandy  plains,  through 
the  hostile  tribes  of  Indians,  up  the  steep  and 
rocky  mountainside,  across  the  raging  streams, 
over  the  burning  desert,  through  the  snow- 
capped mountains,  and  down  the  steep  and 
rocky  canyons. 

We  camped  at  old  Hangtown,  two  thousand 
miles  from  the  Missouri  River.  Sunburned, 
ragged,  and  dusty.  The  cattle  poor  and  lean, 
wagons  empty,  provisions  gone.  We  sold  the 
cattle  for  two  hundred  dollars  per  yoke,  wag- 
ons  from  fifty  to  one  hundred  dollars  each, 


CROSSING    THE   PLAINS    IN    '49  I75 

rifles  and  shotguns  for  from  ten  to  twenty 
dollars. 

At  Hangtown  we  found  every  nationality 
under  the  sun  represented. 

The  mountains  and  canyons  were  full  of 
gold  hunters.  A  few  were  making  their  for- 
tunes, while  thousands  of  them  were  only 
making  a  living.  In  my  pioneer  mining  days 
many  amusing  incidents  occurred,  but  this  one 
I  deem  worthy  of  recording,  as  it  illustrates 
how  we  longed  to  see  a  white  woman.  It  was 
in  the  winter  of  1850.  We  were  mining  on 
the  north  fork  of  Weaver  Creek,  twenty-five 
miles  east  of  old  Hangtown,  where  Three- 
finger  Jack  was  hanged  in  1849.  It  was  Sat- 
urday; the  snow  had  been  falling  nearly  all 
day,  when  Sam  Hit  came  into  camp  with  the 
joyful  news  that  a  white  woman  had  come  to 
Snow's  camp,  sixteen  miles  away.  Next  morn- 
ing I  put  on  my  best  jeans  pants,  my  mother 
had  made,  a  pair  of  alligator  boots  that  I  gave 
an  ounce  of  gold  dust  for  ($18),  a  red  flannel 
shirt  that  cost  me  four  dollars,  my  old  wool 
hat,  lopped  down  over  my  ears.  I  struck  out 
on  foot  to  see  the  wonderful  creature,  a  white 
woman.  When  I  arrived  at  Snow's  camp,  it 
was  late  in  the  day,  and  as  Mrs.  Snow  kept 
a  restaurant,  I  ordered  dinner,  at  $1.50.  While 
eating,  I  saw  some  eggs  in  a  pan.  On  inquiry, 
I  learned  thev  were  worth  one  dollar  each,  so 


176  CROSSING   THE   PLAINS    IN   '49 

I  ordered  one  cooked.  This  brought  my  din- 
ner up  to  $2.50. 

It  was  dark  long  before  I  reached  home. 
I  had  a  long,  weary  walk  over  a  steep  moun- 
tain trail,  and,  should  I  live  to  be  a  hundred 
years  old,  I  shall  never  forget  the  day  I  walked 
sixteen  miles  to  see  a  white  woman  in  Califor- 
nia. 

After  four  years  of  toil  in  the  mines,  I 
settled  in  Pleasants  Valley.  I  have  borne  my 
share  of  pioneer  life;  the  time  is  near  when 
there  will  be  no  survivors  of  the  pioneers  of 
'49-'  50.  But  few  are  left  to  tell  the  tale.  And 
now  my  story  is  ended.  If  I  have  been  suc- 
cessful in  conveying  to  the  reader  a  little  of 
the  hardships,  the  toils,  and  privations  the 
pioneers  of  '49-' 50  endured,  then  I  shall  be 
completely  rewaj^^3lRSpJ^fet)or. 

Of    THE" 

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